


Titles Are Hard

by SandwichesYumYum



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Gen, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-03 03:37:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2836664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandwichesYumYum/pseuds/SandwichesYumYum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth. Eventually, for reasons. A prompt response for RoseHeart, in which Westeros meets 'Die Hard'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fists With Your Toes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RoseHeart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseHeart/gifts).



> This fic is for the J/B festive thingy, and for RoseHeart, not only as her kindness to me seems neverending, but because 'Die Hard' was an outstanding prompt. Any excuse to dust off that particular shiny disc, amirite?
> 
> My thanks to Nurdles for helping me with this, and with so much else, of late.
> 
> This is a crack fic, consisting of eighteen hurriedly-written, short chapters, all of which are made entirely of nonsense. Bearing that in mind, please be aware that plotting may be batsarse, canon allegiances could be absent, characters might do things you wouldn't expect and some things/people will turn up that have no actual need to be there at all. It doesn't matter really. Is just for fun, so bung on 'Ode to Joy' or 'Christmas in Hollis' and let's begin, shall we? May your festive season, in whatever form it takes, be a good one.

**Titles Are Hard**

**Chapter One - Fists With Your Toes - Jaime**

 

“Fists with your toes?” Jaime Lannister looks at the man who has sat quietly next to him for most of the flight. Of a certain age, he is wearing a suit which screams of a lifelong career spent toiling in middle management, though the glove covering the shortened fingers of his left hand speaks of a past that might, in fact, be more interesting.

Whatever he is or has been, however, hardly matters, as his advice on the fear that Jaime couldn't quite contain as they came in to land seems quite genuine. He smiles at Jaime. “Two of my seven boys hate flying too. It works for them.”

“Thanks,” Jaime says distractedly, as he pulls the toy down from the overhead locker. He hefts it under his right arm and then notices the man gazing with some trepidation at the holster this movement has revealed. “Don’t worry. I’m a cop.”

He leaves with little more than a nod to his fellow passenger, wanting only be somewhere unrelated to the form of transport that took his father’s life. He steps out of the plane with a silent breath of relief, blown out at length, only to find himself stuck behind a large woman in a voluminous pink sundress, with a severe looking man at her side. She is wheeling along a small and equally pink, hard-shelled carry-on case as she remonstrates with remarkable gentleness with what may well be her husband, from what Jaime can tell. “You really can’t threaten to start removing a man’s skin, Roosey,” she tells him. “Not when we’re on holiday. And certainly not because he served you the wrong cocktail. I know you’d had a few drinks, which is unlike you, but it wasn’t a very nice thing to do.”

“That may be so, Wallie,” the husband says, with real fondness as he says her name, though he frowns as he continues. “But what kind of establishment would employ someone who mistakes a Sunken Iron Isle for a Last Hearthy Wallbanger? I loathe that level of incompetence.”

“I know you do, dear,” the woman tells him, and despite the fact that Jaime isn’t too bothered about hurrying, given that he isn’t sure about being here at all, he dodges past them when they pause in the walkway, leaving Wallie behind him, reassuring her man that good service at dinner is not a lost art.

He bypasses the carousel of endless waiting, his snap decision to come to the Westerlands having been made only an hour before his departure meaning there is no luggage for him to retrieve. He wonders if he even has enough coin left in his wallet for the taxi to the new and very shiny Casterly Plaza in the centre of Lannisport, and nearly misses the card bearing the name 'J. Lannister’ amongst those waiting, lining the ropes in the arrivals lounge.

He turns back and paces over to the Essosian standing in a chauffeur’s uniform, which seems a touch too small for him.

“I’m Jaime Lannister.”

The man looks at him indifferently and nods, but says nothing.

“What’s your name?” Jaime asks, more to prompt him into moving than anything.

“Drogo.” The huge man’s jaw clenches as he seems to consider something. “But most call me Khal.”

“Why?”

“They just do,” he says. That he can peer down at Jaime at all is unusual, yet he does, and with no little sense of consternation. “It’s my first day. I don’t know how this works,” he bluntly offers.

“It's been a while, but I think you take me to the car now.” Jaime waves at the nearby doors, watching them swish open and shut in an uneven beat, letting people spill in and out of the airport. “Lead on, Khal Drogo.”

So he does. Jaime follows the chauffeur as he lopes towards the exit, though just before their feet hit the bristly mats set into the floor just inside, the big man looks back at the cuddly toy stuffed under his arm.

“Nice bear.”


	2. The Red Hat

 

**Titles Are Hard**

**Chapter Two - The Red Hat - Jaime**

 

“You don’t talk much, do you, Khal?” Jaime asks, bringing forth little more from the man hunched over the steering wheel than a pair of momentarily raised eyebrows. He has failed to utter a single sound since they left the airport. Even Jaime’s sitting the huge cuddly bear in the rear of the limo in the car park and joining the chauffeur in the front had garnered nothing but a dissatisfied grunt as he tossed an empty horseburger wrapper into the back, without a whiff of apology.

“You might want to adjust the seat, after you’ve dropped me off. You’ll be more comfortable,” Jaime offers, trying to break the ice.

Still nothing.

Jaime sighs as they start to circle a roundabout, repulsively resplendent as it is with one of those vast and gaudy civic attempts at a Khaleesmas nativity scene which tend to pop up in all major cities at this time of year. He takes in the three reputedly wise, newly-hatched dragons and the now standard, almost androgynous, naked figure of the Dragon Queen, all lit by a blazing plastic sun. “You know, Drogo, I get that her clothes and most of her hair were supposed to have been consumed by the enchanted fire. But I’ve never understood that bloody fluffy hat.”

“My people say the red is from the Red Wastes, which saw her rebirth. And that the white is because winter was coming for the North of her rightful homeland, which had been stolen from her.”

“Don’t _drown_ me in words, all of a sudden, Khal,” Jaime grins. “Do you believe it?”

“No,” the chauffeur mutters. “I also heard it came from an old ad for Qorgyle Qola.”

Jaime laughs, though it is weakened by his first glimpse on this trip of his father’s most beloved project, Casterly Plaza. As much as Tywin Lannister had thought the design a thing of beauty, Jaime feels it cuts up into the sky like a blunt broadsword of old, as austere as the man who never lived to see it completed. His father had been so enraged by old Gerold Lannister's decision to gift Casterly Rock to Westerosi Heritage upon his death that he spent most of his life planning this project. It soars up now, a vast feat of engineering, from the center of Lannisport, outstripping the height of the ancient castle sat atop the Rock by a single foot.

_A big 'fuck you' to the people of Westeros from my late, great father._

Jaime’s bleaker musings are interrupted by the distinct sound of a button being hit and the silvery voice of Alequo Adarys, singing with his Band of Nine about his one true love on the radio. Khal Drogo appears to nod his head in time with the mind-numbing music, and Jaime’s attempts to appear outwardly unamused by it are an undisputed failure.

His damning chuckle is met with a cool glare, which in its turn is halted by the trilling of the carphone's ringer. The chauffeur picks it up and starts mumbling into it. Jaime hears little of what is said, frantically trying to make the man pull the suddenly weaving limo over to the side of the road as he is. His gestures are ignored, though the call still seems to be cut short, ending with a distinctly audible, "I will see you later, my sun and stars."

Once the phone is back in place, to Jaime's relief, he can't help but repeat that last statement, if a touch dryly and not without question. Drogo merely glances at him dismissively. "She is my sun and stars." It is spoken so matter-of-factly that Jaime might think it crushingly sweet, if the man saying so didn't also look like he could crush a man's ribcage with only his thumbs.

They get closer to the Plaza and Khal looks at him. "Do you know where you are staying?"

"I really don't," Jaime says. "I'm not sure what I'm walking into. I might need to leave in a while."

"I'm on for a few more hours. I'll wait for you in parking." The offer is well-meant, and Jaime accepts it when they pull into the drive sweeping up to the entrance of Casterly Plaza. They come to a stop and Jaime is handed a small business card. "Call me if you need me," the chauffeur says.

"Thanks, Khal Drogo," Jaime says as he opens the door and steps out of the limo. He ducks his head back in for a second. "You know what? I think I like you. You're alright."

This garners the first genuine smile the fierce man has let loose since they met. "Don't forget your bear, Jaime Lannister. I think I like the bear. It's alright."

Jaime laughs loud and long as he does so, only to have it fall away again when he peers up at the glass facade towering above him, a blade glowing blood red in the light of the fast setting sun. "I have a bad feeling about this," he says to himself, before taking a deep breath and striding into the belly of the beast.

The security guard, a very, _very_ distant cousin by the name of Reginald, if Jaime remembers correctly, waves him through with a shouted direction to take the lift to the thirtieth floor. As he rises upwards through the building, Jaime picks at the meatball sauce stain on the front his plaid shirt. He had been at The Forge, Tobho Mott's bar in King's Landing, so heavily frequented by the KLPD, when he decided this was a good idea.

_It doesn’t seem like such a good idea now, does it, idiot? This isn't even your favourite shirt._

He ponders the fate of his green plaid shirt for a moment and concludes that it could well have chosen it's own name by now if, as he suspects, it has been languishing in the bottom of his laundry basket for the last few months. Then the lift doors swish open, and Jaime steps into a world in which he has long since ceased belonging.

The refined strains of a string quartet flow over the heads of the assembled guests. "That is a _lot_ of shoulder pads," he says to himself, making his way around the edge of the room towards the offices, and trying not to notice the newly installed and completely hideous water feature.

_I'm a Lannister, and even I don't think I've ever seen so many lions. Dead or no, that's tasteless, even for you, father. And this from a man with a misplaced shirt that may end up having to go to school._

He makes his way into her office, stopping briefly to inspect the name on the door and shaking his head at what he sees there, for all that he had expected it. He knows the inner workings of this corporation better than most, after all. No matter how hard he has tried to distance himself from it.

_Equally new. Equally tasteless. Pretending she has never even been wed._

He walks to the window and looks out across Lannisport, watching the street lamps begin to flicker into life rather than spending his time in wait looking at the travesty that is their family photos. The nearest one, the only one with him it, catches his eye nevertheless, and he gently places it face down on the top of the bookcase.

As he does so, he hears her footsteps behind him. He turns, and there she is. Unchanged, yet farther away than she has ever been, even when they were divided by a continent. By more. It hurts. However hard he has tried to steel himself for this moment, to pretend it doesn't cut, it still does.

He doesn't show it. Jaime smiles. "Hello, Cers."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am posting this tonight as I may not have time to on Christmas Day itself. Chapter 3 will be posted on Boxing Day. Thank you kindly and very best wishes for the season.


	3. The Woman

 

**Titles Are Hard**

**Chapter Three - The Woman - Jaime**

 

_"Jaime."_

For the briefest moment, he allows himself to believe in the aching breathiness she pours into his name. Yet though it sounds almost the same to him, there is a chilly undertone to it, and Jaime wonders if it had always been there, or if his absence for the last two years had planted it and seen it grow.

He doesn't muse on it for too long, because in seconds they aren't alone. His sister is followed into her office by two others. One he doesn't know. One he most certainly does.

"Varys. How are you?" He gives the question as little care as he can manage, which naturally does not pass by the recently installed president of Lanniscorp unnoticed.

"Settling into my new role quite well, Jaime, even if it was one I never sought," the bald man tells him, his voice as unnaturally smooth and unruffled as ever. A clammy hand is extended and Jaime thinks of five separate reasons for not taking it, one involving a large crocodile he is currently sadly lacking, and yet another an arakh, until a slight scowl from Cersei sees him falling into line, just as he always used to for her.

"That much is true, at least," Jaime admits, shaking Varys' hand. His father's deputy had served as the de facto president of the company for more than two years after Tywin's death, yet had resisted taking the post, only officially accepting it some months previously at the behest of the board, under the force of their shareholders' increasing jitters.

"Still determined to serve the people of King's Landing in your chosen role as a police officer?" The question is laced with a kind of wistful disappointment, which Jaime rather thinks an improvement on the more blunt chill he'd often faced from his father.

"Yes."

"It is a pity, Jaime. Your father -"

"My _father_ ," Jaime interrupts, "spent many of his latter years trying to ruin my career so that I would have to come here. I know. Let's not forget, he nearly did, and probably not without your help. But given that he couldn't manage it when he was alive, what do you think the chances are of it happening now?"

"All too slim, I fear," Varys sighs, with the barest flicker of disdain as he glances at Cersei. Jaime can hardly blame him. It isn't as if her tenure here has been entirely trouble free. Yet her willingness to shrug off the Baratheon name whilst her husband's body was still warm has at least given Lanniscorp the illusion of some continuity.

Jaime turns his attention to the man he does not know. "And who is this?"

"Daario Naharys. He's -"

"In truth, I really don't care, Cersei," Jaime shrugs, taking in his oiled blue coif and an extraodinarily forked beard, not to mention the sorry looking arrangement of flowers he is holding. "Nice hair, though, Daario. A unique...statement."

Daario bristles at Jaime's wry tone. He steps forward and rests his free hand on Cersei's shoulder. "Show him the watch, Cersei. Go on. Show him. It's a Benbushy," he smarms. "It's a small token of my appreciation. She's quite brilliant."

_She's quite stringing you along._

Cersei sighs and extends her wrist and Jaime chuckles as the large gold dial glints brightly under the overhead lighting. "Just how many of those do you own now, sister?"

Cersei looks down at the wildly expensive trinket dismissively. "This is the thirteenth."

"Unlucky for some," Jaime commiserates with the suddenly crestfallen younger executive. "Put the flowers down and leave, Daario. Or better still, put them in a bin. They're wilted. Just how long have you been carrying them around? It looks like you walked them all the way here from Essos."

"Too long," Daario grunts, dropping the tired blooms into the waste bin by the desk.

Varys joins him, steering the man out of the office with soothing words. "Come, Daario. I believe that Missandei will be arriving soon, and she has some ideas about Project Mother of Dragons which I'm sure you will find fascinating. She will value your input, I'm sure." This offer seems to mollify Daario somewhat and he leaves quite happily, no doubt to inflict his questionable charms on this Missandei.

Cersei shuts the door and leans against it, her smile now a touch more genuine. "I missed you, Jaime."

"No, you didn't," Jaime says, walking over to the small bathroom. "You're enjoying all of the attention. Look at Dreario." As he turns on the cold tap, he quickly and cuttingly smiles back at her. "He's got his eye on you."

"Then he can take it and put it somewhere else," Cersei snorts, pushing herself away from the door and perching gracefully on the edge of a leather seat. Jaime can almost feel her watching him as he splashes water on his face and it makes him slightly uncomfortable. "The children will be happy to see you. They missed you, last year," she says, while he runs his fingers through his hair, as if to brush away the last of his fear of flying, at least for now. Jaime notes that the pretence of her being happy to see him was unmentioned.

_That didn't last long._

"Let's be honest for once, Cers. They're why I bothered coming at all."

Cersei gazes slightly scornfully at the bear, which is still a bit misshapen from its time in the overhead storage locker on the plane. It is obvious that she feels his last minute purchase a poor one. "I can see _that_. Where are you staying?"

"Well, Arthur Dayne recently retired out here."

That brings her to her feet, with a sharp cry of outrage. "That hack from The Morning Star? The one who tried to expose me? I thought him dead." Her lips become narrow and pursed and Jaime finds himself suddenly concerned that an untimely death for his friend might have been something Cersei had actively sought to bring about, even if it never came to pass.

No sooner has the thought formed, however, than he shuts it out. He can't believe she would go quite that far. "No. He lives out near Oxcross now. He keeps bees. I'm not sure why."

"I have never known how you can be friends with that man, Jaime," Cersei bitterly complains. "For years, he tried to bring down our family."

"You talk as if he had a vendetta against us, Cersei. That's more your style."

"He nearly had me arrested!" she says, her contempt for the former journalist clear.

Where Cersei is growing furious, Jaime cannot find it in himself to be so yet, though he is certain it is coming, as surely as winter. "Yes, nearly. It was strange how all that evidence suddenly became inadmissable in court. How did you swing that?" He drags his eyes quite deliberately over her still perfect form. "Or need I ask?"

She steps over to his side and spits up at him, _"That_ is no longer any of your concern."

He looks at her in the mirror and feels nothing but sadness.

_We used to be so alike. What became of us?_

"You needn't worry about Arthur, Cers. I think his time as a 'threat' to you is long gone."

She looks at their shared reflection too and as she does, her anger swiftly twists into something more akin to speculation. "Oxcross is a long way out, Jaime. You'll spend half of your time here in a car."

"I _know_ , sister."

"Well, it seems pointless that you do so," she tells him. "I already asked Taena to ready a guest room, just in case."

"A guest room?" he asks mildly, well aware that Cersei is trying to manipulate him and unwilling to allow it to happen ever again. "How my star has fallen."

"You didn't expect me to ever take you _back_ , did you?" she asks him, her anger all too quick to return. "You abandoned me, Jaime. You abandoned me when I needed you most."

At last, Jaime feels his own anger begin to bubble when he turns to face her. "I'm a serving police officer, Cers. I could not hope to keep my career if I publicly defended you when you were going to be brought up on some fairly solid charges of Grand Embezzlement."

"It was just a bit of coin," she hisses up at him.

"It was _millions_ of them, Cersei."

They stand and glare at each other with open hostility, a foot apart, but as distant on the matter that broke them as they have ever been. And it doesn't stop, a silent barrage of accusations and sharp replies pouring from matching sets of cold, green eyes.

There is a small cough from the office doorway, and they are brought back from their unsettling battle by a heavily pregnant woman, who speaks to Cersei. "I'm sorry, but Mr Varys has asked for you to make a speech, Ms Lannister. To rally the troops."

"You'd better get to that rallying, 'Ms Lannister'," Jaime says, as Cersei nods her acknowledgement of her summoning, but his anger ebbs and he shrugs at her apologetically. "I'll finish up here and be out soon." Jaime watches Cersei leave, a final glance aimed at him absent of any of remorse in _her_.

Once she is gone, he slaps his hands on the marble surface next to the sink in frustration. He berates himself, now alone in the mirror. " _'Or need I ask?'_ That was mature, Jaime. Real mature. If we were living in the Age of Heroes, for fuck's sake. Great work. Outstanding."

He unbuttons his black and white plaid shirt, intending to wash some more, when it occurs to him that the advice from his fellow passenger might work for things other than fear. He pulls off his battered running shoes and socks, throwing them into the corner and allowing himself a quick grin when he sees how out of place they look amidst this luxury. He wriggles his toes in the plush carpeting, walking back and forth in the little bathroom. "Fists with your toes, fists with your toes," he chants.

He is almost sold on this idea being a good one, when an all too recognizable sound begins cracking through the air. Gunfire is met with screaming, and Jaime scrambles for the desk. The phone on it isn't working. "Fuck." He runs to the door, slamming at the light switches to turn them off whilst he opens it a sliver, to peer out into the party.

All of the guests are being corralled into a single group in front of the preposterous water feature, their screams fading to a general moaning of distress as the shots being loosed by about a half a dozen gunmen become fewer. He spares a moment of panicked thought for Cersei, but knows that his charging in alone would do no good.

_I have to get to a working phone._

He looks in the opposite direction and sees an emergency exit, tucked out of sight of the attackers.

_I think I can make it. Maybe._

Jaime can't see the man who then starts to speak, in what might be the oiliest voice that ever oiled. "Khaleesmas greetings, everyone. We are here to make a statement, of a sort. If you do not fight us and do as we say, you will remain unharmed." There is a short pause and Jaime watches the gunmen, waiting for the best moment to make a break for it. "The rampant greed of Lanniscorp has been a blight on this continent, on the world, for far too long. Gold has been kept under the claws of lions, instead of being used wisely, to help those in need. The oppressed. The brutalized. Nothing good has ever come from this cursed company. So I would like, if I may, to speak to a Mr Varys. He claims to be from Lys, and his skills in business are so great he is called the 'Master of Whisperers' to his face. Yet behind his back, others have named him the 'Master of Lies'. Don't be shy, Varys. Do step forward. It would be such a pity if we had to start shooting again."

There is a murmuring amongst the guests which seems to draw the attention of the men threatening them. Jaime hears Varys reply, quite simply, "I am he."

He sucks in a few, deep breaths to steady his nerves and then Jaime dashes for the exit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warmest thanks to Nurdles, for her assistance. Also to RoseHeart, who has been encouraging me to begin retagging my fic, though I cannot promise how long it will last. Eeeep! Do not like. Retagging, not RoseHeart, obvs, because she might actually be the best person. The next chapter will be ready in 2-3 days. Best wishes to you all.


	4. The Grim One (a.k.a. A Very Nice Suit)

 

**Titles Are Hard**

**Chapter 4 - The Grim One (a.k.a. A Very Nice Suit) - Jaime**

 

Jaime bolts up the stairs, taking them two at a time. When he reaches the thirty-fifth floor, he opens the door a finger's width, only to hear two men talking about searching the floors above, so he turns tail and goes back down to the next one instead. It seems quieter and he quickly pads over to the nearest phone, finding that this one has no dial tone either. In fact, no matter how many he tries, every single phone is useless, which can only mean all the lines have been cut.

He stands there in the silence, trying to think of another option, only to have to cram himself under a desk when he hears footsteps entering the large, glass-walled conference room ahead of him.

The first voice that comes to him belongs to the same man who had been verbally grandstanding at the interrupted party, just a few minutes before. "That suit is astonishingly well made and not unlike a few of my own. It looks like it was made in the House of Donyse."

"By Donyse herself. We have a longstanding...acquaintance, of sorts."

_Varys._

"I'm sure you do," the apparent leader of the assailants says. "Who better to wiggle out a person's dark secrets than their tailor?"

Jaime can see little of what is happening, but now Varys walks into his view and stands next to a chair. "People will say the oddest things when their inside leg measurements are being taken. Or so I'm told," he replies. The tone is so politely conversational that, initially, Jaime experiences a moment of horror. He seriously considers that Varys might be a part of this, or even the mastermind of whatever the hells is going on here.

That impression does not last.

He watches the attention of the president of Lanniscorp being drawn to the vast model which sits on a table in the room. Just moments before, Jaime had caught a glimpse of it and he thinks it to be one of the Stepstones Crossing project, with bridges skipping from island to island, intended to eventually link Essos to Westeros.

"'When Bran the Builder saw the vastness of his works, he wept, for no more would his world be conquered.' Benefits of a classical education. _Do sit_ , Mr Varys," the unseen owner of the voice orders, with a gratingly ominous tone. "This is a very impressive project. One could say once in a lifetime, but-"

"It would not do to be so disingenuous, I'm sure," Varys states from his newly taken seat, whilst he smooths the legs of his trousers and two large goons with enormous guns walk around to assume positions somewhere behind him. Yet then he stares at his captor curiously. "Though I thought you declared this corporation one of corruption and greed? It is unlikely, I think, that you would approve of this, were it a belief truly held by you. So why are you here?"

This is met with a low sort of laughter that Jaime wouldn't think out of place on the stage, emerging from the plotting mouth of an evil royal advisor. "You are determined to take the wind out of my sails, aren't you?"

The curiosity drops away from Varys, revealing eyes bright with an intelligence as sharp as his body is soft. "I am not one for amateur dramatics. I have always worked a touch more subtly than that." His next words hit Jaime as a hammerblow. "And I am well aware I am not leaving this room alive. I would just like to know why. You seem moderately cultured and you are indeed wearing a very nice suit. I'm hoping you are equally well mannered."

"The reasons are dual. When we made our _subtle_ entrance, you were unafraid, too busy thinking to share in the fear of your underlings." There is a pause. "I do believe you know who I am."

While Jaime frantically tries to come up with any ideas to retrieve Varys, the man himself appears entirely unconcerned, giving the question a few seconds thought before he seems to arrive at the decision that denials would be pointless now. "I don't know your real name, but I've heard you described. Littlefinger, yes?"

"Yes. It is your misfortune this night, Varys, that we share the same tailor."

Varys grins thinly, lifting his right hand and brushing at his fingernails with his thumb. In anyone else, it might be taken for a sign of nerves, but in him, it comes across as yet more of his almost bloody-mindedly determined calm. "But Donyse is very good. And I do not believe my going to the House of Moelle instead would have saved me. Besides, she cuts her cloth too meanly, do you not think?"

"I find myself in agreement with you. That being so, let us get down to our main business here." There is another pause, apparently for effect, though the reaction in its intended target is lacking. "Mr Varys, I would like to speak to you about the vault."

"I am to die in a robbery? How very disappointing." Even if Jaime has had a difficult history with Varys, he must admit to being impressed that the man is exhibiting no fear at all. His face, if anything, simply shows him to be mildly offended by this new knowledge.

"You have already rightly concluded that you have only a little time left, Varys," this Littlefinger tells him. "I would now ask you to consider the levels of discomfort you might unfortunately be forced to endure _during_ it."

At that, Varys truly smiles, and Jaime cannot recall ever seeing one more genuine on him. "You will find that I can endure far more pain than you might think. But quick or slow, it will do you no good." At some unspoken gesture from Littlefinger, who is maddeningly out of sight, he explains. "There was a financial scandal involving one of our more senior executives, a year or two ago."

"Ah, yes. I think I read about that in Chime Magazine."

"You and everybody else in Westeros, I'm sure. Bless Baelor's Bells," Varys ruefully adds, speaking of the logo of that once respected magazine, which had reveled in the emerging details of Cersei's deeds. "Once that matter had...gone away, a new ruling was implemented. Now no-one who sits on the board ever holds any of the codes. I'm afraid the stark truth here is that you can shoot your way through everybody in this building, one by one, without finding a single password. As far as I know, no code-holders are even here."

"What we don't know is what usually gets us killed. And you do seem to pride yourself on knowing everything. I think I believe you. How very disappointing."

Varys becomes impassive. "That seems to be the general tone of this conversation, as I have said. More so for me, I suspect."

There is some clicking of buttons for the next few seconds, and during them, Varys notices him. He becomes very still, sending Jaime one glance that is filled with a deadly certainty, so strong he feels he can hear it.

_Do nothing to stop this, Jaime. I cannot get help for them. You can._

He gives a small nod in return, shrinking back yet further into his hiding place. Jaime wonders at his sudden admiration for a man he has spent his life wholly distrusting, whilst Varys himself calmly waits for his end, his gaze close to serene when he turns it back to his captor, who remains so frustratingly out of Jaime's field of vision.

There is a familiar crackling noise which fills Jaime with hope.

_They have radios._

"Sal, we are going to Plan B," Littlefinger says.

"Glad to hear it," is the reply.

"I don't care. Can you get in?"

"Well, you sure as the seven hells didn't bring me for my sparkling personality," the thief is told. "I can get past six. The seventh might be a problem."

"We have time to work on it," Littlefinger tells Sal, "but I have a small matter to deal with here first." No sooner has he stopped speaking, than a single gunshot rings out and Varys' body topples sideways, to the floor. The sound of that lone firing shocks Jaime in his place, far more than the chaos had, some floors below. He takes one last look at Varys, his eyes now unseeing and blood running from the fatal wound in his forehead. It jars Jaime into movement, a low, crouched shuffle becoming very swift as he rounds the nearest corner.

He hears some commotion behind him, glass panels being flung open and heavy footfalls. This is followed by the now unmistakable voice of Littlefinger. "I thought you told me everybody was secured. Go! Find him and _kill_ him!"

Jaime runs without any real sense of direction for a minute or so, the sight of Varys' blood pooling on expensive carpets too fresh in him to shake. But what brings him to a halt is something he should have thought of before now. He stares at the small red square set into the wall, and the writing on the panel there.

_In emergency, break glass._

"Well, if this doesn't count as an emergency, I don't know what the fuck does."

Thinking that he had better move to another floor quickly after doing this, and with a moment of silently offered prayer that the automated fire alert system is working at all, he shoves a plaid covered elbow into the alarm, breathing a sigh of relief when it rings out harshly.

Then Jaime runs yet more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I must thank Nurdles for her guidance here. Have my biscuits, N! :) Chapter five will be posted in 2-3 days. Thank you all for your time.


	5. So Much For The Cavalry

 

**Titles Are Hard**

**Chapter 5 - So Much For The Cavalry - Jaime**

 

The piercing alarm falls silent and Jaime watches in despair as the approaching fire engines, far below, turn around in the street to make their way back to the station. "What are you doing? Come back! Morons!"

_Fuck._

He beats at the window in frustration, and even as the quivering sound of it ebbs away, there is an all too recognisable click behind him. Jaime spins around, lifting his gun in the direction of the doorway.

"Nice try." So grunts the monstrous man across the room. He is a big one, and ugly to boot, made no prettier by the machine gun he is holding.

_Fuck._

"Don't tell me," Jaime says, circling about slowly, getting himself away from the glass. Every step he takes is noted. "The brand new fire alert system is full of glitches."

"Some shite like that," the beast confirms, with a grimace that might be a smile, though it is hard to tell with the scarring that twists at the very edges of his mouth.

"Enjoying the party?" Jaime asks as he comes to a stop, trying desperately to think of a way out of this corner he's shoved himself into, by shouting uselessly at trucks which couldn't even hear him.

_Fool. Fuck._

The huge man's gaze is unmoving, as is his gun, whilst he considers the question. "The salmon blinis were good."

"You don't look like the salmon blini sort. Did you have to get a waiter to tell you what they were? Possibly at gunpoint?"

The reply to his barb is blunt and unconcerned enough. "Yes."

"Oh." Jaime can't help but notice the the surprising and somewhat jarring fashion statement he's making, and thinks the item likely to have been taken with menaces, at the same time he procured his blinis. "So, what's with the hat, big guy?"

"'Tis the fucking season." The white bobble on the red hat sways as the man tilts his head to measure his quarry, though that damned gun he's holding stays far too steady. "Let's see. Gold hair. Green eyes. Are you one of that dead Lannister's bastards? Nice of him to give you a job as a janitor."

"So you like to insult people when you're pointing a gun at them?" Jaime says, immediately promoting this unkempt plaid shirt to his favourite as he firms his stance a little. "Because I don't know if you realize, but you seem to have a few outstanding features which may come into play here. And I don't think they'll be to your advantage. I hate to tell you, but your _face_ -"

The bag the man is carrying drops, though the gun doesn't. Huge nostrils flare.

_I think I hit a nerve._

"Well," Jaime dryly continues, "it's more your beard, really. You have some salmon in it."

There is a definite smile from his opponent now, which does nothing for his looks. "Maybe I'm saving it for after I've put a hole between your eyes."

"I haven't chosen which hole I'm going to put a bullet in," Jaime quips, still trying to work out what he's going to do and plumping for his normal tactic of being as irritating as he can whilst he's about it. "Was your face particularly wrinkly before? Because ironing your face seems a bit drastic, as cosmetic measures go."

He misses that nerve, this time, the smile on the beast getting yet wider and more hellishly unnerving. "You think that insulting my face will hurt me? Behold King Cunt the First, Ruler of All the Idiots. I must write a letter to my mum about this. I'll make sure I tell her how pretty you are when you're dead."

"You can write _and_ you have a mother? A human one? Are you sure you weren't whelped?" This is met with low, rumbling laughter, which sets Jaime's heart to beating yet faster than it already was, making everything about him pin-sharp. "Why is that so funny?"

"They call me the Hound."

_Fuck._

"I've heard of you," Jaime states simply, real fear singing through his veins now. The Hound is known all over Westeros for his swift brutality, but nobody has ever survived him long enough to confirm the rumours which told of his being badly maimed.

"Everybody's bloody _heard_ of me. Though never for long, if they ever meet me."

The Hound takes a step forward, and Jaime tries to halt him by asking, "Are you sure that sharing your name was wise?"

"Makes no difference. You're already dead."

"What's in the bag? Go on, you can tell me. I'm just a dead janitor, right?" Jaime stalls.

The towering man shrugs slightly, cleary lacking any concern about sharing this information, given Jaime's status as one who is shortly to be unliving. "A shitload of detonators."

Yet more adrenalin roars through Jaime. "What the hells do you need _them_ for?"

_Is it for the vault? But that is below us._

"Above my pay grade, mop-boy," the Hound chuckles. "I just fetch and carry. And clean up cunting loose ends."

He takes one more step forward and Jaime backs away, feeling the side of his foot brush against something metal. "Cunting loose ends like me?"

_So there's an actual mop._

He hadn't noticed it before this meeting, all of his senses having been bent to waiting for an arrival which failed to materialize. In his peripheral vision he can see a nearby pillar and knows he has but one chance here.

"Yep. Nothing personal," the Hound says, with no real malice. "I'll make it quick."

He is still saying so when Jaime kicks the mop bucket in the Hound's direction as powerfully as he can, looses off one shot and dives for the meagre protection of the pillar. He crouches, with his arms held at the sides of his head, expecting a torrent of bullets to pour in, for the sharp edges of dislodged shards of concrete to topple atop his head. They don't come, and he is simply too slow in reacting to that fact.

His own gun is wrenched from him in moments to be thrown across the room and then Jaime is roughly lifted to his feet. "Nice shot, you little bastard. You grazed my hand." The Hound, now no longer holding his own weapon either, slams him into the pillar, his fingers rising to grip Jaime's throat. Injured and bleeding or not, there is no discernable weakness in him. "You ain't a fucking janitor, are you?"

"Cop," Jaime squeezes out, in those first, desperate seconds.

"Good," the Hound snarls as his fingers tighten. "I eat wankers like you for breakfast, and shit 'em right out later on."

_Not today, I fucking well hope._

So intent is the Hound on choking the life out of him, his contorted face just inches away, that Jaime has only one option left. He writhes against the concrete at his back, pulling off his shirt, and then knees the enormous man in the balls. Though it doesn't seem to hurt him much, it loosens the Hound's grip just enough so that Jaime can take in a violent and much needed deep breath, before wrapping black and white plaid around a thick neck and pulling at it with every last ounce of his strength.

At first, the Hound seems to find Jaime's attempts amusing, which only drives him to pull harder. It almost turns a battle of wills, all tearing and burning of muscles, and sweat pouring as dark spots blacken their vision.

It is, in truth, a complete shock when it turns out to be a battle Jaime wins.

There is a distinct click in the Hound's neck, though as they are a mess of arms and elbows, Jaime can't tell who had actually forced his head too far back. Hands fall suddenly away and the Hound topples onto his back, bringing Jaime down onto him. For a while, Jaime can't let go of his shirt, too busy frantically sucking in air to do anything else. But then, he looks down into dead eyes, panting out, "There are no wankers like me. There's only me."

Jaime hauls himself up to his feet, kicking out again, if only weakly, merely catching at the Hound's leg with his big toe. "That's for Varys," he adds, before he slopes over to the bag. He is still breathing too hard when he leans over to unzip it, and rubs at his thick feeling neck whilst he stares down at a mass of ammo and more importantly of detonators, which are many.

_Too many._

He can't quite understand why they are so numerous, for surely even the vault in Casterly Plaza isn't that ferociously hard to break. But then, perhaps it is. It's not like he ever showed any interest in this project, of his father's devising.

_And it makes no difference if I am the one who has them._

He goes to retrieve his gun and returns to drop it into the bag. He closes it again and lays the Hound's machine gun on it, then searching the dead man's pockets. He finds a wallet and stares at the artfully created driver's licence with a grin. "Nothing personal, big guy, but your accent didn't exactly scream Tony Vreski to me. Wait, where is it even from? I've never come across it before and I've heard a fuckton of false names."

He continues his search and in a larger pocket, he finds what he really needs.

_A radio._

Relieved, he rises and makes to leave, but then glances back at the body on the floor, the heavy bag swinging his right arm.

_They know I am here and they've sure as hells sent me a strong message. Maybe I could send one of my own. It might give me the time I need to get to the roof._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the next chapter, I might need 3-4 days, tbh. I think you'll understand, when you see it. Thank you kindly for your time. :)


	6. Only He Can Drive You That Crazy

**Titles Are Hard**

**Chapter 6 -Only He Can Drive You That Crazy - Cersei**

"What do you want me to do?"

Through the din that is only now starting to lower, brought about the leader of this attacking rabble announcing that _'Mr Varys will not be joining us for the rest of his life'_ some minutes before, she scowls at Lanniscorp's Head of Marketing. "Nothing, Daario." To answer his patronising grin at her apparent cowardice, Cersei leans in, speaking sharply. "Listen to me, you rank incompetent. Apart from Varys, no-one is dead. And we can't even be sure if that's true. For all we know he's just being kept separately from us."

"But I thought you liked grand gestures?" Daario sneers, clearly still feeling the effects of what little sourleaf powder he'd managed to shove into his nose earlier, though most of it still decorates his embarrassing moustache. He looks like he's had a nosebleed. Then again, subtlety has never exactly been his forte.

"Not when they get me dead. This isn't a business deal, Daario. It's not that kind of game. This is the sort where we win, or we die."

He looks as if he will reply, but there is a pinging and the lift doors slide open. Silence falls and Cersei has some hope that Jaime, if he isn't dead, hasn't abandoned her again, after all. They aren't what they were, it is true, but she has no doubt that despite her prolonging the estrangement he began, he still loves her and her alone, even if she chooses not to return it anymore. That if he survived the initial attack, he would come for her. That hope is turned to the bitterest of ashes when one of their captors stalks to the lift, only to shout back over his shoulder, with a sense of shock rather than aggression.

"Littlefinger!"

Having only just begun to walk away, the small man in charge of all of this turns to join his 'colleague', calmly adjusting the cuffs of his Donysian styled suit as he does so. Yet when he does, his cultured demeanour starts to slip.

"Straighten it. _Now_ , Shitmouth. I need to see the words."

Reluctantly, his gun-toting flunky steps into the lift, only to back out very quickly a moment later. Then Littlefinger, if that is his real name at all, spits out what he seems to be reading, anger making his jaw clench. "Now I have a machine gun. Ho-ho-ho." Hope flares in Cersei once more as he turns to the enormous man at his side, unafraid to grasp at the front of his shirt. "Where's Gregor?" It shakes the man out of what appears to be some kind of stunned stupor, though Littlefinger asks again. "Where _is_ he, Shitmouth?"

Cersei wonders if that is his favourite curse, in the beat before a reply is offered, the older, grizzled one giving it beginning to laugh. "Having a shitting drink and a rest in the last office on the left. I think even the brain dead bastard of a pox-riddled whore would know what that means. Good luck, you poor fucker." As Littlefinger slowly walks in the direction of the offices, appearing to be genuinely afraid, Shitmouth, for the want of a better name, takes one last, surprised look whatever is in the lift. "Shit. Bugger me with a spear."

Cersei leans back slightly to watch while Littlefinger indeed makes his way into her office, which fills her with anger.

_I'll have to burn everything in there now. I won't be touching any of it again._

Her own anger, however, is utterly eclipsed by someone else's in seconds. Her office door slams back open and Littlefinger is thrown out into the hallway, hitting the door opposite hard enough to make it shudder on its hinges. He is clearly disoriented, yet he has no time to recover when the very largest of the men who had so spoiled their gathering earlier on grabs him by the neck and drags him to the lift. Whatever he sees in there cannot be to his liking, for he shoves Littlefinger to the ground, screaming in blood-curdling rage, and pounds fists the size of small dogs into the wall beside it, cracking, crushing and shaking off some very expensive tiles from Lys.

_I spent a whole day choosing those. Well, an hour or so._

No sooner has Littlefinger struggled back to his feet than the largest fingers Cersei has ever seen are wrapped about his throat again, the mountain of a man that owns them growling down at him. "My brother was _mine_ to hurt. _Mine_ to end. _Who did this?"_

Littlefinger starts to speak in tones just too quiet to be heard, but even if that is frustrating, she feels almost light-headed with relief. "I think it's Jaime," she whispers, more to herself than anything.

"Your brother?" Daario nonetheless says, at her side.

Cersei smiles. "Only he can drive you that crazy."

"He'll get us all killed," Daario hisses through his teeth.

She glares at him. "He'll get us _help_."

"By killing one of the people holding us and then taunting the rest of them about it?"

Cersei wrestles with task of keeping her voice lowered when she addresses this blue-haired idiot. "By getting not just a gun, but a _radio_. Can't you see they all have them? Do you not think that means all other means of communication are lost? They cancelled the fire alarm, Daario." She shakes her head in disbelief when he simply gurns as if his face has been slapped with an old herring. "How did you get your job? I have to ask. I'm beginning to think it wasn't for your shining intellect."

"I am a man of action," he mutters, with no paucity of self-confidence, "I'm not one for sitting here on my hands whilst your brother, the one _you_ told me is a 'loose cannon', causes who knows what harm to our chances of getting through this."

"He isn't only calling for help, you complete lackwit. Look about us." Even while they are talking, Littlefinger has been freed from what appears to have been an iron grip, shaking himself back into composure as the largest man calls over two more to go with him. "He's already drawing three more into the search for him. Away from us."

Daario refuses to admit the rightness of that, simply saying, "I can't wait much longer. I _won't_."

"Well, if you do anything stupid, don't expect me to do anything to protect you."

"I wouldn't expect you to, anyway," he replies, staring at her with scorn. "What could _you_ do?"

"Careful, Daario," Cersei warns. "Your charm, such as it is, is slipping."

This only brings a disdainful and insulting peering down at her chest. "Yours are too." He smiles, thinly and meanly. "Is it too late to ask for my gift to be returned?"

Cersei just about bites back her anger, happy enough instead to disabuse him of the notion that his astonishingly poor business 'tactics' are a surprise to anyone. "Yes. And your not-so-secret plan of heading straight for Missandei would be the height of idiocy anyway. Have you ever heard of Grey Worm?"

"The cage fighter?" she hears him grunt uncertainly, whilst she looks about and finds the Essosian woman in their number. Her untamed locks bounce as she comforts a man in a dreadful tweed jacket and a bow tie at her side, who is almost wailing, "This shouldn't be happening!" If Varys truly is dead, Missandei will be the one who could prevent her from becoming the president of the company. The woman is brilliant and Cersei knows it, but right now it seems she is one of the few who can be relied on to keep calm, in this situation. Cersei sends a soft nod, which is noticed and returned.

_The Gods only know, we can't leave it all to the men. Let them compare cocks whilst we try keeping us all alive._

She turns back to Daario, who is looking at her with fearful curiosity. "He is her husband. I've met him. Despite the bronze armour and menacing cloaks he wears at work, he really is charming in person. I would definitely take _him_ for a spin if I could, but sadly, he is devoted to her."

Cersei tries not to groan as the woman beside her begins to weep again. She barely restrains herself from bluntly telling her that they are all about to die in a bloody hail of bullets, instead remembering the words her father had grudgingly shared when she was finally permitted to join the company, his long-held hopes in Jaime having been fully extinguished.

_Treat those who are loyal with dignity and generosity, and they will remain loyal._

She rubs at the woman's enlarged stomach, trying not to flinch away as snot falls from a reddened, swollen nose, barely missing Cersei's designer jacket. "It will all be well, Lollys. Listen to me. You and your child will get safely back to...Bronn, isn't it?" The sobbing continues, though a plain face bobs up and down in agreement.

For an age, she caresses that huge bump, trying not to hear the endless snivelling. As brainless as she is, Lollys has proven to have a knack, a true gift for arranging Cersei's diary, and her complete loyalty has been bought, until this night, with very few small acts of 'generosity' on Cersei's part. She waits until the noise abates and Lollys stutters out, "Thank you, Ms Lannister." 

With some relief she pats Lollys' pudgy hand with a soft smile and and turns back to Daario. She hasn't finished with him just yet and she immediately picks up where she'd left off. "Still, Grey Worm could take you out with two arms and a leg tied behind his back, probably just with his free little toe, whilst taking a piss." She leans in. "If you are determined to clamber up the corporate ladder via the smallclothes of women, Daario, you should at least research your targets in doing so." 

Daario's mood seems to have turned, and he just grins at her. "I sense you disapprove of my methods." 

"You sense right," Cersei softly snaps. "Men. You always seem to think that what is between our legs makes us weak. I hate to enlighten you, but you are the ones weakened by it. You are the ones who lose your sense of reason so easily. Not us." 

Daario's gaze flicks between Lollys and Cersei a few times, with an uncertain sort of approval, she believes, but then he freezes. 

Littlefinger steps around Cersei to stare down at her, his features shuttered. "This seems a curious time to be discussing sexual politics in the workplace," he says, his voice as smooth and dramatically dark as she has yet heard it. 

Cersei denies her initial impulse to simply stand and slap him all the way to Seven Hells, instead choosing to ask what she feels to be a pertinent question. "And what else would you suggest? Should we, perhaps, be discussing the _politics_ of being held at gunpoint?" 

The leader of the men keeping them captive doesn't reply, but he looks down at her for perhaps a half a minute, or so it feels in Cersei's place. His lips then twitch into the semblance of a vague smile and he moves, making his way around his hostages and towards the offices. 

_If he didn't know who I am before, he will now. He will know it from the photographs._

Even while she considers the fact that she will probably be next to die, there is a slumping noise over by the lift. Everybody cranes their necks to see when another vast man, this one dead and bearing a mutilated face, is dragged out into view. 

But as others moan, stupidly thinking that the obviously old scarring is new, Cersei tries not to laugh out loud. There may have been one message, scrawled in blood across a wide chest, sent to this floor.  Yet there was one other, meant solely for her. 

Around a thick, still neck is a awful, ugly shirt she has seen just once before. Made of black and white plaid, it is tied badly into a poor bow. A ghoulish Khaleesmas present, of sorts. And Cersei likes it a great deal. 

_Now you have a machine gun, Jaime. Ho ho ho._

She knows her brother, all too well. He wouldn't have done this if he hadn't thought there was a good chance of his getting the word out, so he must have at least a small head start and a working radio. 

Cersei's hope is totally renewed. She is certain that help is going to come now, though it may take time. Jaime will see to that. Now her concern turns back to her own situation. If Littlefinger is truly aware of who she is, and Cersei doesn't doubt that, she is far too visible a target, too easy to use as a tool in his idiotic 'war against corruption'. She decides to have a change of heart, and looks at her male companion, talking to him as if weary. "Do what you like, Daario. But consider it carefully first. And don't get the rest of us killed." 

Daario's eyes lift from where they have settled, on the fat bulge of Lollys' belly. "I'll do as you say." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Acres of thanks to Nurdles, who is being wonderful in spite of RL being the flat opposite. *Hugs* The next chapter should pop up in 2-3 days. Thank you kindly.


	7. Very Real (a.k.a. Are You Kidding Me, Lady?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My love and thanks to both Nurdles and RoseHeart.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own it not.

**Titles Are Hard**

**Chapter Seven - Very Real (a.k.a. Are You Kidding Me, Lady?) - Jaime**

"Come back to the Westerlands, Jaime. Tommen and Myrcella would love to see you. It could be _fun_ ," Jaime sing-songs, opening his Zekko lighter to shine its golden light ahead of him. Noting that he'll be able to drop back out of this godsforsaken vent in about twelve feet, he closes it again and resumes his crawl in the tight space into which he'd thrown himself, to escape the two gunmen he'd encountered up near the roof. "And just what would we do, Cersei? Reminisce about 'old times'? Or maybe we could make some truly scintillating and excitingly terrifying new memories, which will unfortunately only last until we _die_. Possibly as we scrabble about on the floor, desperately trying to make our outtards our innards again."

He grows swiftly silent when distant, intermittent gunshots approach and more alarmingly, start to rattle and ping through the vent far ahead of him. Sharp, narrow beams of light shine up through the bullet holes, reminding him of those immensely stupid science fiction movies where people have to somersault their way through a set of laser beams to steal some space trinket or other. He shakes away the thought and leans lower to see who is coming, even as another round pierces the vent, all too near.

What hoves into view is simply the biggest individual Jaime has ever seen.

_By the fucking Gods. He must be seven feet tall._

Jaime can do nothing but wait as the ping of bullets entering this weak haven of his gets ever closer, his heart beating so loud he is worried it will be heard, all by itself.

_Ping._

_Ping._

_Ping._

But then the gargantuan man is held back some by the arm of another Jaime cannot see and who, as it turns out, carries with him an interesting turn of phrase or two. "Shitting hells, man. Are you just going to fucking destroy every air vent in this ugly cunt of a building?"

The speaker is dragged into view by huge hams of hands, spittle flying when a simple sentence is growled down into his face. _"I want him dead, Shitmouth."_

Were Jaime in the rough looking, older man's place he'd be shaking in his shoes. But these two appear to be used to each other, and the one with the spectacular vocabulary just pushes those enormous fingers away from his throat. "Look, if he's only made it this sodding far, he'd have to be eighty-fucking-four!" Jaime decides not to feel too insulted at that, all things considered, before colourful terms continue to flow. "I don't reckon your brother was the sort to be iced by someone who probably shits into a bag, right? Save your ammo and come on. We'll move back down a floor or two. This area's clean as a septa's cunt, mate."

They go to leave, but then the giant turns back, aiming one last shot at the vent, apparently just in case, with a malevolent grin. Time slows to a thickened crawl, and Jaime believes he can actually see the bullet being deflected by one of the slats, before his eyebrow begins to burn. He daren't make a sound. He doesn't even breathe. He holds his breath within until it pains him almost as much as his new wound does, only allowing himself to gasp in a frenzied need for air when he hears a door open and close.

_They're gone._

Jaime drops his head onto his arms, his head spinning, shivering as he brings himself to calmness. When he feels a bit recovered, he lifts it again. Even in the poor light in this vent, he can see the blood covering his forearm.

_Just what I wanted for Khaleesmas. More scars._

While he swipes at his face, because the last thing he needs right now is blood in his eyes, one thing he just heard finally settles in, and it bites like a blow from a sword.

_Your brother._

Jaime is almost determined to carry on thinking that the Mountain is some kind of myth, spun from the air to scare minor, aspiring criminals into line, when tales of his 'younger brother' failed to make the point adequately. Yet less than an hour past, he'd thought the Hound a made up legend too, and Jaime had still been forced to kill him. And it isn't as if he hasn't now seen a man who perfectly fits the rare and frankly outlandish descriptions which have been circling the seedier parts of Westeros for decades.

"Oh, fuck," he moans at himself, wishing he were still back in The Forge, where despite the official nature of the clientele, the observation of the rules regarding opening hours is surprisingly flexible. "Coming here was is probably the worst idea you've ever had, Jaime. Truly the worst. Well done, you fucking idiot."

He listens over the vent for a minute or so, and hearing nothing, applies increasing pressure to it until it falls away with a fairly light clatter. He drops down from the vent as quietly as he can manage, landing on a table beneath it, dragging out his bag and weaponry after him. He places the vent cover under a huge, well-upholstered chair and makes his way to the window, fumbling at the radio he pulls from his back pocket. Wanting to think that his failure to make it to the roof will not impact his attempt to get help too badly.

Jaime turns the round knob on top of it to tune into what he hopes is the emergency bandwidth here in Lannisport too. That being done, he talks, and he is shocked by the sense of strained panic that even he can hear in his voice. He speaks quickly. "This is a distress call from Casterly Plaza. There is an armed robbery in process. About thirty people are being held at gunpoint. I need whatever you have. Send emergency response teams, hostage negotiators -"

"Ser, this is a dedicated emergency channel," cultured, soft tones cut in. "I have to ask you to keep it clear."

Jaime holds his radio out, staring at it incredulously, before bringing back to his mouth. "Does it sound like I'm making an order for Valyrian spiced dumplings here?"

"I must request that you cease cluttering up this channel immediately, Ser," she reaffirms. "It is meant for real emergencies, not prank calls."

Jaime can't help himself. He's worked so hard to get to this point, and he can't bear the thought of his failing now, because of some jobsworth with an over-proportianate sense of self-worth. "Are you kidding me, lady?"

"Officer Tyrell, to you," a far too overly prim voice replies.

Jaime doesn't believe her to be offended for a second. "Well, _Officer Tyrell_ , let me tell you about this situation. It _is_ a real emergency. There are about a dozen very real men with very real big guns aimed at the very real and very really fucking terrified guests at Lanniscorp's Khaleesmas gathering, on the thirtieth floor of Casterly Plaza. Right now. Oh, and I'd like to add that Varys, the president of the company, is very really _dead_."

There is a moment of static before Tyrell replies, though she still sounds extremely skeptical. "If this is as 'very real' as you say, Ser, I will have to ask you to call 711 from a telephone, as most real people do in their very real emergencies."

"There are no working phones here," he grunts wearily into the radio.

He actually hears her laughter, as she comes back to him. "At Casterly Plaza? _Really_?"

"I want to speak to your supervisor," he bites out.

"I _am_ the supervisor, and this is the fourth prank notification we've had in the last hour alone. It is the best by far, I'll grant you," she allows him. "Though this is not the time to be doing this, if you have any consideration for others in you at all. We are far too over-stretched at this time of year. You will be brought to book for this, I swear it."

Now Jaime understands not only Officer Tyrell's reticence to believe him, but Littlefinger somewhat more. He has clearly had people calling in fake incidents over the emergency channel throughout the course of the evening.

_Clever._

He gives it one last shot, though Jaime has little hope of it working. He pours as much of his very truthful desperation into his voice as he utters, "This is no prank, Officer Tyrell. I _swear_ it. People are _dying_ here."

She comes back to him immediately and is clearly angered by his having used her own words to try and convince her of what is happening. "That's it! I've had just about enough of this game. Ser, if you are at Casterly Plaza, as you say, please remain there. Somebody will be along shortly to question you about wasting police time and your misuse of emergency communications networks."

_Thank you, Officer Tyrell. That's enough._

"That's fine! _Do it!"_ Jaime says, insistently. "Send them to _arrest_ me, for all I care! Just get someone here."

He sees a reflection of movement behind him in the window. "Oh, shit!"

Jaime grabs the bag and runs again, a cascade of bullets dogging his footsteps in a wide, blazing arc of noise and sparks in his wake.

When he finally gets the chance to take a moment of rest, behind yet another pillar, he glances down at his radio and sees that the button you have to press to transmit is looking decidedly unpressed. Still, he hopes that Officer Tyrell has heard enough.

_Send someone, Tyrell. Please. Send anyone._


	8. Check It Out

**Titles Are Hard**

**Chapter Eight - Check It Out - Brienne**

 

Brienne smiles wryly at herself and rubs at her tired, aching neck. Flying a desk for the most part or not, a double shift still takes its toll and she is now finding it difficult to even make this most meaningless decision.

She shrugs and lets her free hand skip past the dubious temptation of the pile of Grennkies, trying to block out the incessantly grinding sound of jingle bells floating from the tinny speakers in the corners of the shop, and picks up a few of the Hot Pie Company's new oat cakes. Given that one of her most faithful companions during her childhood was Bramble the mongrel, so named for her love of blackberries, who had followed her home from the market on Tarth one day and simply never left, it is curious that she likes eating food shaped like dogs. But there it is. She gazes at the decidedly poorly designed logo on the yellow packet.

_Or are they supposed to be wolves? I've never really been able to tell._

She makes her way over to the counter to pay, disentangling a low-hanging Khaleesmas garland from her hair with a resigned sigh whilst she hands over a large-denomination paper dragon. "I'm sorry, I don't have anything smaller," she tells the lad behind the counter, who doesn't seem to mind.

The radio in her pocket crackles into life. "Do we have any units near Casterly Plaza?"

Brienne answers the familar voice quickly. "Hey, Marg. Are you _still_ on shift? I'm at the petrol station across from the Tooth and Claw on Tanner. What do you need?"

"You escaped your mass of paperwork, Bri?"

"I had to go and get a witness statement signed."

 _"Exciting,"_ Marg teases, meaning nothing ill by it, though she sounds slightly frustrated as she goes on. "Look, we're still dealing with all of these prank calls. They're coming in from all over the city. I've got another possible one. It needs to be checked out."

"OK, I'll take it. Give me a minute and I'll be back in the car."

She plucks her change from the patiently waiting hand of the cashier. "Thank you," she says, looking at the mop-haired youngster's nametag, "Pod."

"Merry Khaleesmas, Officer," he offers as she leaves. She sends him a friendly nod and goes back to her car, strapping on her seatbelt and picking up her in-car radio, which is always more reliable.

"What do I need to know, Margaery?"

She pulls out of the petrol station forecourt and swings right onto the main drag of Tanner, in the direction of Lannisport's new and least impressive structure, however large it is.

"An unidentified, adult male just placed a call through the emergency radio channel," Marg says. "He claimed that he was at Casterly Plaza, attending a party there. Then he said that there were gunmen holding the guests hostage, though he also mentioned an armed robbery. He also claimed that the president of Lanniscorp, a Mr Varys, is dead."

"That's...elaborate," Brienne replies. "I don't suppose there have been any demands for safe passage to the airport or dumptrucks full of gold, have there?"

"There have _not_ , my friend." Brienne can almost hear Margaery grin whilst she takes in the monolithic, mirrored surface of Casterly Plaza, rising up into the sky. "Be careful, Brienne," Marg then adds, with a note of caution. "I'm sure this is another hoax, but I have a strange feeling about it. The call ended suddenly, with a _ton_ of feedback."

"Well, I'm looking at the Plaza right now, Marg. It seems quiet. There are a few lights on, nothing more. I'll check it out and get back to you in a few minutes." She puts down her radio and speeds up a little, though decides that the likelihood of this 'incident' not being one at all means it doesn't warrant any sirens.

She glances occasionally at the massive structure as she nears it, still seeing nothing out of the ordinary. She pulls up outside and upon leaving the car, spends a moment peering upwards. All appears well, so she paces over to the glass doors, to find a night receptionist approaching. Portly and rather tall, though not as tall as Brienne herself, and bald with a lengthy, but well-trimmed grey beard, he is wearing a somewhat loose suit in a fitting shade of eye-catching red. He uses a swipe card to unlock the doors, which is a good sign of this indeed being a hoax. The man reads her own name badge. "How can I help you this evening, Officer Tarth?"

"There was a report of a disturbance at this address. Do you mind if I come in and ask you a few questions?"

His response to her voice is one she sees too often, though it no longer hurts her. He gapes for three whole seconds and just about manages to hold back a laugh that could be nervous, or mocking, or maybe even a bit of both. But then he shakes his head quickly. "Of course, Officer. I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize, Ser," she tells him bluntly, yet kindly, as she steps inside. "I'm used to getting that reaction from people." She follows him over his desk and waits for him to take his seat. "I understand that there is some sort of celebration here tonight?"

"There _was_ ," he tells her. "But they've all moved on, no doubt to some swanky club where they can get up to things they would never dream of doing in the workplace." He shrugs. "You know what the rich are like."

"Yes. I do," Brienne agrees, with a smile. "Tell me, if you could, how many people are currently in the building?"

"Five. Me, a couple of janitors and two security guards. They'll be working their way up and down the building, throughout the night."

"Do you mind if I take a quick look around? We get these false reports all the time, but we still have to go through the proper procedures. I'm sure you understand."

"Have at it, Officer Tarth," the receptionist says, leaning back comfortably in his chair.

_Too comfortably?_

Perhaps it is because she is used to being seen as intimidating, particularly when she is in her uniform, but Brienne is surprised at the ease in him. Yet she lets it go, as he has given no indication of anything actually being wrong.

_Not everybody is terrified of the police, Brienne. You'll be seeing grumkins under the bed, next._

She walks slowly past the desk and into the transit lobby behind it, taking in the lights above the banks of lifts. None of them are lit, so none can be in use. She turns back again, finding the silence eerie, though that hardly counts as suspicious. She is almost back to the main lobby when she looks down a small side corridor, leading to bathroom facilities. What she sees there is a mop bucket, plain and simple. Yet whoever had been using it had left the mop itself lying on the floor some feet away, in a pool of water. An unsettling feeling flutters in her gut as she makes her way back to the receptionist's desk.

"There was a janitor working just around the corner?" she says.

The grey-bearded man nods. "Yes. Tim."

"You should tell him to be more careful with his mop. He didn't leave it in his bucket." The man chuckles, with an air of resignation. "He probably just remembered that he left his sourleaf in his locker and hared off to get it again. He does that every night."

"I see," Brienne says. "One last thing, before I go." She points down at the small screen set into the desk. "This can be used to locate personnel in the building?"

"It can," he explains. "Just touch the initial, then the name of the one you're looking for."

"Do you mind if I do so?"

"Be my guest. May I ask who you're looking for?"

"Mr Varys." She smiles at the amused huff from the man behind the desk. "I might as well start at the top, don't you think?"

She touches the president of Lanniscorp's name and the computer's answer is instant.

**Mr Varys is not present at this Lanniscorp location at this time.**

**Thank you for your query.**

"That's very clever," Brienne says. "Can I try another? How about you, Ser? What's your name?"

"Reginald _Lannister_ ," he states, dryly and without delay. At her raised eyebrow, he tells her, "A very distant, very poor cousin."

"How _very_ nice of them to give you a night job, Reginald," Brienne mildly says, as she taps at the screen.

Reginald laughs out loud at that. "How very like _them_ , is closer to the truth."

Again, the computer gives her the information she requested in a flash.

**Mr Reginald Lannister is available at the reception desk in the Main Lobby.**

**Thank you for your query.**

"There's even a map," she notes, looking at the red dot on it. "How remarkable."

Even if Brienne still has that nagging feeling that something here is off, she can hardly call a hurriedly discarded mop a reason to investigate further. "Well, I think we're done here, Reginald. Thank you for your time. Would you mind letting me out, now?"

"Not at all, Officer Tarth. I understand that you have a job to do." As they go towards the doors they exchange the standard festive pleasantries, and Reginald waves at her through the glass as she steps over to her car, before returning to his desk.

Brienne is just pulling out the seat belt when, in an instant, everything changes.

There is no mistaking the sound of rapid gunfire shattering glass high above her. She is already starting to reverse her car as she looks back into the lobby to see 'Reginald' running forward with a large gun, but she is gone from his line of fire before he can shoot.

Brienne picks up her radio to call it in, but that is the moment when there is a jarring impact. The windscreen shatters, flying inwards, and her car starts to accelerate backwards, no longer under her control. An arm flops in, dead fingers bobbing about absurdly in front of the dashboard.

"Officer in need of assistance at Casterly Plaza!" she shouts into her radio, bracing herself for the end of the short journey her patrol car is barreling towards. "Weapons fire confirmed! One fatality confirmed! More than one assai-" There is a jolting thud from underneath the car and Brienne is briefly thrown forward into the steering wheel just as it shudders, beginning to tip first upwards, and then back, sliding over a raised bank and down into a shallow ditch. It comes to a relatively gentle halt, but by the time it does Brienne is shaking in her seat, her lap half-full of a dead man. She fumbles at the door handle, taking three attempts to open it. Then, grateful for the cover of the grassy mound, she clambers out, leaning weakly on the roof of her car for a few seconds.

Brienne doesn't let it last, reaching back in for her radio to answer the desperate pleas pouring from it. "I'm OK, Marg. Did you get that?"

"Gods, Brienne. What in hells is going on, down there?"

"The lower half of Casterly Plaza is in the hands of armed hostiles. I don't know how many. I only met one, but I am certain there are more. There must be some resistance on the upper floors. There is a dead male on my car." Brienne looks at the mangled body, fighting back bile. "He's a mess, but he does show signs of bullet wounds."

"Are you safe, Brienne? Please confirm."

"I've got some cover, Marg. I'm in no immediate danger. Just tell me help is on its way."

"It is," Margaery says, her voice reedy with stress, "but it's going be some time."

Brienne slumps to the ground and leans her back against the car door. She yanks at the cord on her radio and brings it close to her mouth. "Don't tell me. All police units are responding to incidents _miles_ away."

"They are coming, Brienne," Margaery reassures her. "They _are_. As fast as they can."

Brienne racks her brain, trying to come up with _anything_ that might be of use here. "Marg, can you review the call informing you of this?"

"I'm doing it now."

Brienne nods, for all that it won't be seen. "Then I'll leave you to it, Margaery. And I'll let you know if anything changes here."

"Stay safe, Brienne."

Her friend sounds far too worried, so Brienne pours as much confidence into her reply as she can. "Will do. Tarth out."

She sits and shivers for a little while in the balmy night air of late summer, but refuses to allow herself to give in to the shock of this just yet.

_What I have gone through is clearly nothing, compared to whatever is happening in there._

She looks up at Casterly Plaza and sees one empty, broken window, which might be the place from which the dead man fell, if not the roof. Some rooms on a few floors are lit, but otherwise, the new building now stands in silence.

Yet even if it seems like nothing is going on, something clearly is. For if the Plaza is silent, her radio is not.

Brienne hears two men begin to talk, and a couple of things are immediately obvious to her. They are both in that building.

And they are _not_ on the same side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks and love to Nurdles and RoseHeart, as ever. The next chapter will be up in 2-3 days. Best wishes. :)


	9. When Chapters Overlap (a.k.a. Welcome To The Party, Pal!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to both RoseHeart and to Nurdles. Also, to the latter I say 'get well soon'. Much love.

 

**Titles Are Hard**

**Chapter Nine - When Chapters Overlap (a.k.a. Welcome to the Party, Pal!) - Jaime**

 

"You could've killed me in the stairwell, you piece of shite. We both know it. So, maybe I can give you some sound advice? The next time you get a chance to kill someone, just do it. Wait, that's right, there won't be a next time for yo-"

Jaime fires repeatedly, up from his place beneath the table and through it, using the idiot's voice as his guide. Three shots are enough to see a body slump to the floor from above him, a couple of feet away, only one lifeless eye staring in his direction, the other left a mess of blood and pale liquid, pooling on the carpet. "Good point, Dunsen. It was Dunsen, wasn't it?" Jaime mutters. "Truly. Thanks. Great advice. I'll make sure I remember it."

He pulls himself up and out of his most recent place of shelter, sending a scornful look at the inconveniently designed and now wholly ruined piece of furniture. It had barely protected him as he scrabbled along desperately beneath it, weaving his way between the offset legs, and now he has three more stinging bullet grazes to prove it. "Who in the fucking name of the Stranger wants a thirty-foot long table shaped like a zig-zag?" he addresses the second of his most recent kills.

 _My third of the night. How very bloody festive. I'm so_ very _glad I'm here._

He stalks grimly over to the window, hoping that the message that had seen him chased down another floor has been received.

It has, as it turns out. But not nearly as widely as he wanted it to be. There is a lone black and white, sat small and insignificant, outside of the entrance to Casterly Plaza.

 _"That's_ all you've sent? Gods, and I thought the KLPD were shit!" Jaime groans in despair.

He knows he can't wait for much more than a few minutes. Probably less. What has happened here has no doubt been heard, not least by the man he suspects is the Mountain, yet he finds himself spellbound by the silent, unmoving vehicle. He stands there looking down and, after turning the volume on his stolen radio back up again, listens, every breath in him willing whichever cop is down there to utter one word, just to put out the call they all need here.

_Unless he is already dead._

No. This Littlefinger seems too devious to allow such a potentially inflammatory act to happen, as least at this stage in the game. So there is another being played out within the Main Lobby of Casterly Plaza right now, and it is one Jaime hopes the good guys will win. That thought makes him laugh cynically, despite everything.

_Look at me, fighting for justice. How I've grown. Or so most people would think._

And still he waits, eventually ending up staring down at the empty patrol car in outrage. He taps the pads of his fingers nervously on the window. "Come on, _come on,_ surely you've been in there too long? Why the hells aren't you calling for back-up?"

Jaime becomes uneasy, aware that his time here is limited. He makes a decision and goes to lug the carcass of the man he heard being called Dunsen over to the window. When he looks out again, he sees a tow-headed officer climbing back into his vehicle.

He hears no following call for assistance.

_No fucking way is this going to happen. Not again._

He'd hit the window with a chair, but he grew up in homes with the same kind of glazing, and knows it would be virtually useless to try it. Anyway, it seems like it's time to make a real statement. He pulls Dunsen's spare machine gun from around his neck by the strap. Then, he fires. Before all of the glass has fallen away, he tips Dunsen out of the window.

"Ignore _this,_ you fucker!"

He hauls himself up to his feet and yells out, "Welcome to the party, pal!"

But then he winces as Dunsen's body crashes onto the bonnet of the patrol car. He hadn't intended to be that accurate, thinking a falling body alone would be enough to catch the attention of even the dullest of flatfoots.

This accident of timing sends the car speeding backwards increasingly fast, and a _woman's_ voice rings out over the radio, calling for help and giving information even as she crashes. He looks at what can be seen of the ailing vehicle when it comes to a stop, his gut twisting in horror.

_Don't be dead._

Jaime gathers the bag and the discarded weaponry, then runs a few office spaces along before making his way back to the window, hoping that the officer is still alive. He catches a glimpse of her, leant over the roof of the car, just before she answers the frantic calls of Officer Tyrrell, the one who had been so very 'helpful' to him.

If Tyrrell had come across as pert and officious, Officer Brienne seems a sensible sort, giving as much information as she has whilst freeing her colleague as soon as she can for her own tasks. When she makes the obvious, wider link to the distinct lack of flashing lights descending on Casterly Plaza and the false calls, Jaime could kick himself. He has been kept so occupied by simply trying to survive that he hadn't had a moment spare to consider that the geography, as well as the sheer number of the hoaxes, will have depleted the police coverage of central Lannisport to the point of non-existence.

_They're probably all out near Arthur Dayne's house._

Though Brienne has hunkered down next to her car in an attempt to gain cover, Jaime can see the top of her head, an unkempt, but thin haystack, even at this great distance, in the pool of light radiating from a nearby lamp-post, and he knows one thing for certain.

_If I can see her, they can too._

Yet he does not think that she will be killed without Littlefinger's permission. Surely even the Mountain wouldn't be fool enough to kill a police officer right out in the open without his leader's say-so? To Jaime, there is one clear way to make sure the men roaming the upper floors of Casterly Plaza don't get it.

"Littlefinger," he says into the radio.

"I said we must keep radio silence!"

Jaime laughs at the obvious strain in his foe's voice. "I do believe I missed that staff meeting. I didn't see anything on the bulletin board about it, either. Perhaps if you'd tried skywriting?"

The moments of dead air practically fume until Varys' killer comes back to him, those comically over-the-top tones of evil now working overtime. "You _are_ troublesome, for a security guard."

Jaime makes the irritating noise that always accompanies wrong answers on 'Game of Houses'. "Oh, I'm sorry, Littlefinger! Would you like to spin the Wheel of Ages to stay in the game, or simply risk it all with another wildly fucking incorrect guess?"

"If you're not a security guard, then what are you? I hope you don't mind me showing an interest in the matter."

Content that he is proving distraction enough from the isolated officer outside, Jaime starts to move his way around to the other side of the building. Any chance of using the nearest stairwells to get to another floor would be beyond foolish, and he knows it. "I'm the thorn in your side. The strangler in your wine. The pain in your fucking arse."

"How eloquent."

He ignores the slight, instead choosing to offer a few of his own. "Are you enjoying your spell in charge? Did you bring a replica of the Iron Throne with you? You seem like the sort. How do you like lording it over your new, and I should imagine quite scared, subjects?"

"I've always been a staunch believer in anarchy, myself. Still, there is a certain charm to the idea of ruling this place, out of all of them."

That tells Jaime more than he thinks Littlefinger had intended. "You don't like old money? _Somebody_ grew up poor."

"You didn't?" 

The question is too quick. Too eager. Too easy to dodge. Jaime hasn't had a whiff of Lannister coin since he first chose his career. "Believe me, I'm _poor_. I wouldn't even try to swing a cat in my apartment. It would be cruel and I happen to like animals. They're so much better than people, don't you find? For a start," he cuttingly adds, "I've never known a cat take thirty or forty hostages at gunpoint on Khaleesmas Eve."

There is a prolonged silence, and Jaime uses it to scour his memories of of the tedious times he'd sat with his father, pretending to look over the blueprints of this godsforsaken place, trying to remember anything useful.

He is just on the very edges of something springing to mind when Littlefinger speaks again. "You have me at a distinct disadvantage, my mystery guest. You seem to know my name."

"Not your real one," Jaime replies.

"Well, no. One must show some discretion in one's dealings, given my line of work. I'm sure you understand. Yet what am I to call you?"

"Seems to me that, despite the fact you have a chip on your shoulder the size of Bear Island, you're having a bundle of fun being on top of the pile. Why don't you call me Kingslayer?" Jaime smiles at the radio. "Because I'm coming for you."

"Good name," Littlefinger breathes, apparently aiming for ominous and yet again taking it a touch too far. "Did you manage to make it up all by yourself?"

"I think it has a certain swagger, don't you?"

_The service lifts. They move without any bells and whistles. I hope you didn't listen when I said that was a weak point, father._

Jaime starts to jog to the one farthest away from the point of Dunsen's swift descent, listening as Littlefinger issues a dark threat in tones which Jaime feels really should be legally limited to Osfrey movies, created to scare children with their wicked stepmothers and evil spells before the inevitable happy ever after pitches up. "Well, Kingslayer, you have something of mine, and I want it back. So I think you'll find we will be coming for _you_."

Jaime slaps at the lift button as soon as he gets to it. "Bring 'em on, Your Grace. Your men have itchy trigger-fingers, but they like to talk too much. Dunsen made a poor paper aeroplane, his smaller buddy has simply nothing to say about anything anymore and we all know what I did to the Hound. I'm feeling fine and your numbers have taken a real hit. Why don't you send them to find you a nice crown instead? It'll save them and it might complete the kingly look." He holds his breath, waiting to hear the chase begin once more, but it doesn't happen.

"I am currently only interested in one accessory, Kingslayer. The one you have."

Jaime doesn't speak until the lift doors are fully open, choosing instead to quickly glance at his reflection in a nearby glass panel. He's a mess, his white undervest bloodstained and in tatters. He steps into the service lift, making sure that he rattles the bag loud enough for it to be heard. "Pity I'm wearing it so well," Jaime lies. "Yippeekayay, King Littlefucker," he spits, adding, "First of His Name."

The lift doors close, though Jaime only risks going as far as the floor on which Varys had died. Once there, he makes his way swiftly to the front of the building, to check on the officer outside, but now he is too low to see anything, even of her car.

Jaime is about to curse himself for this mis-step, when her voice rings out from the radio, calm and clear.

"This is Officer Brienne Tarth of the Lannisport Police Department. I would like to speak to the man who has just identified himself as 'Kingslayer' on channel icicle-9, if he is able."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will take 3-4 days. Thank you kindly for your time. :)


	10. In Which Things Get A Bit Meta (a.k.a. If You Haven't Parked Your Disbelief At The Door Yet, Best You Do It Now)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My most heartfelt thanks to Nurdles, RoseHeart and Coraleeveritas for their support over the last few days. *Flings fic biscuit confetti all over the gaff* :)
> 
> Disclaimer - I own it not.

 

**Titles Are Hard**

**Chapter Ten - In Which Things Get A Bit Meta (a.k.a. If You Haven't Parked Your Disbelief At The Door Yet, Best You Do It Now) - Brienne**

 

Brienne turns to channel 18 and waits, hoping that her gut feeling about the man who appeared to work out a weak point in his opponent at lightning speed is right. And it would seem it is, only the passage of a second or two seeing a dry statement crackle forth.

"That's a piss-poor code, Officer Tarth. It'll only buy us a minute at the most."

"I _know_ ," she smiles, uncaring that the voice which comes to her is thick with the sense of disappointment that has followed her for her entire life. "It's known only to emergency workers. And the ten million people who regularly watch 'CSI: Sunspear.'"

There is a short burst of low, rounded laughter. He has understood her unspoken question. "I see. Well, I _loathe_ that show. Oberyn Martell thinks he can act with sunglasses and punning alone."

_He is one of us._

"Good to hear," she breathes out with relief. "So, what can you tell me about your situation, Kingslayer?"

"Not yet. Are you still hunched next to your car?"

"Yes."

"Can you get closer to the ground?"

"I can."

She is already moving before he speaks again. "Then do it. Your dreadful attempt at hair can still be seen from the upper floors, yet it's not so bad I want to see it blown away."

She grimaces at the feel of stones cutting into her knees and lowers herself further, pulling at the radio once more, only to frown at that slightly too. "Thank you," she says, "I think. What's going on in there?"

"First, I need you to describe the receptionist you just saw."

She rolls her eyes in frustration at his prevarication, but quickly offers the relevant details. "Reginald Lannister. Tall. Large build. Balding. Grey beard. Red suit."

His voice sounds oddly strained when he comes back to her, though he mentions no reason as to why. "That's... _not_ the Reginald Lannister I saw when I arrived."

"I worked the likelihood of _that_ out when he aimed a gun at me. Now, Kingslayer, tell me what _you_ know."

"You're a stern one, aren't you? Good, I like a challenge." Brienne can't tell if he is mocking her or not, but that doesn't matter, because now the information they so desperately need starts to flow. "There are thirty to forty hostages being held together on the thirtieth floor, in the main reception area immediately outside of the west bank of lifts. There could still be a dozen hostiles and they're armed to the teeth. I can't be more accurate than that, as I sadly managed to miss their gentle invitation to join the party."

One phrase catches her attention. _"There could still be?"_

"My attempts to get the word out have cost them three men." There is no sense of pride or enjoyment in his words, but Brienne has no doubt that some of the many who are now listening will be appalled.

"You realize how that might sound, Kingslayer?"

There is a tired huff. "Believe me, I'd much rather your friend...Marg, is it?... had listened to me the first time. Then it might have only been one. The Hound."

"I heard you mention him. But the Hound isn't real." She shakes her head, even if she is aware he cannot see it.

"I didn't think so, either. But if I hadn't killed him, and them, I would be dead, and no-one outside would know about what's happening here." He pauses and when he goes on, it seems as if he is truly reaching out to her. "Can you at least trust me on that?"

"Yes," she says, almost surprising herself with the promptness of her reply. "I think I have to. Tell me more."

"Their leader calls himself Littlefinger." Brienne shifts on her elbows, trying to get a little more comfortable.

"I heard that too."

"He came in blustering about social injustice and all sorts of high-minded ideals, but a Mr Varys went to his death convinced that this was about coin. He was asked about the vault, before he was killed."

"So it's a robbery?" Brienne asks, whilst she notes her belief in his assertion that the president of Lanniscorp has been murdered.

"I think so, though you can expect a call asking for something weird and wonderful soon enough." Brienne can _hear_ him grinning when he adds, "I get the feeling he needs to stall."

"Why?"

"Because I have a bag full of detonators. I took them from the Hound. As best as I can work it out, they'll need those to get to the coin."

Though the mere mention of the possibility of explosives being in play is chilling, there is another issue that concerns Brienne too. "Kingslayer. That makes you a target."

"Don't you think I know that? I had you pinned for slightly smarter than the average rozzer. I'm quite disappointed."

He is teasing her now, that much is clear. "I'm sure you'll bear it," she bluntly tells him, her mind already racing with scenarios for him to simply get the bag out of the building. "Can you get to the roof?"

He seems to understand the point of her question. "Not now, no. It's guarded."

"How about back to that window?"

The Kingslayer laughs. "I'm happy to make myself a target, Brienne, but _not_ to walk straight into the line of fire."

At last, the sound of sirens approaching breaks the air. Brienne clicks the radio on for a few seconds, so the man holed up inside Casterly Plaza can hear them too. "Did you get that?"

"I did," he says. "Thank fuck. I guess this will be the end of our short acquaintance, Officer Tarth."

"Probably. I reckon I'll be in de-briefing for a while." There is no mistaking the noise that spills from the radio at that. "Are you laughing at that? What are you, twelve?"

Unfortunately, he also hears the name she mutters afterwards and comes back to her immediately. "Did you just call me a 'doofus', Officer Brienne? What are you, twelve?"

"No."

A patrol car, now running silent, pulls up close by and Jon Snow, one of Margaery's closest colleagues, steps out, lobbing her a helmet with a nod of approval. Brienne slaps it on over her 'attempt at hair' and gets up to her feet to put on the body armour he offers too, testing the straps to their very limits in doing so. She is shaking some sensation back into her limbs when the radio springs back into life.

"Officer Tarth. Brienne? Are you OK out there?"

She goes to pick up her radio from where she'd left it on the ground, but Jon waves her to him, so she jogs over and takes his. "I'm fine. I was just stretching my legs."

"Get back under cover!"

She smiles at the concern in the sharply barked order and allays his fears. "I'm wearing protection now. I'm happy to make myself a target, Kingslayer, but _not_ to walk straight into the line of fire."

"So you like throwing people's words back at them?"

"You started it," she mutters, only then noticing Officer Snow's shoulders shaking with barely controlled mirth. It doesn't last, his eyes widening in warning as the radio is snatched from Brienne's hand.

"Tarth, you rank amateur. Give that here and get your ugly arse back to your babysitting." Brienne brings herself to attention even as Tarly, a man who has had no shortage of bones to pick with her since the first day she joined the LPD, jabs a finger viciously at her chest. "There will be proceedings as a result of this, you mark my words. And they are _not_ going to go well for you." He directs his attention to the radio, unconcerned that he had already pressed the broadcast button, spreading his thoughts about her to everybody listening, and turns his anger upon the man calling himself Kingslayer. "Whoever this is, I want you to stop messing with these people, do you understand me? You've done enough damage already."

"And just who the fuck are you?"

"Area Commissioner Tarly," Brienne's 'superior' replies, with no shortage of self-importance.

"Listen, Area Commissioner Tarly. Without me, you wouldn't even know what the hells is going on here. And you've proven yourself less competent than Officer Tarth in ten seconds flat. So if you could just hand me back over to her?"

"No way, you whackjob," Tarly snarls. " _You_ listen to _me_..."

But whatever it is he is going to say goes unheard, as the dark fingers of a smartly suited man holding out a WBI identification card plucks the radio from his fingers and calmly returns it to Brienne. She watches, slack-jawed in astonishment, as the agent's partner steers Randyll Tarly away towards the primary cordon, set some twenty feet away from her position. "No, Commissioner Tarly. There will be no listening to you today, I'm afraid. If you will come with me."

"What's happening? Tarth?"

"The W-Men are here," she informs the Kingslayer. "Sit tight and I'll get back to you."

"Make sure you do."

Brienne spends just a few seconds quietly enjoying the sight of the protesting Area Commissioner Tarly being firmly situated behind the blue and white plastic tape hastily strung across the street, before turning her attention to the younger of the two new arrivals. "Hello," he says, matter-of-factly. "I'm Agent Johnson and that is Special Agent Johnson. No relation."

"That's a strange name."

"We're not from around here."

"You got here swiftly, then," she says with some curiosity.

Agent Johnson nods. "The lady currently in charge of us figured that the douchecanoe, misogynistic, boss-man Tarly has been written so well in so many other fics that having him here would just be re-hashing old ground, and probably not as ably. Besides, this is supposed to be a crack fic and it's fun watching him fume at the perimeter." Brienne isn't quite sure the man is making any sense at all, but follows his gaze back to Tarly. Even at this distance, it is clear that he is barely containing his outrage, his beard bristling red and blue in the flashing lights of the stilled cars now lining and blocking the road. "Look at that," Johnson says, with just a hint of approval. _"So cool."_

By this point, the older of the men has rejoined them and Brienne puts forward a question. "Special Agent Johnson, is your colleague here always so...abstruse?"

The beginning of his reply draws a snort from his partner. "Just call me Special. It makes telling us apart easier. As for Johnson here, I've never noticed him being odd before, but he might be today. Don't worry. He can be a bit gung-ho and he likes calling me _old_ instead of Special or Big, which are my personal monikers of choice, but he's a proficient sort, in his own way."

Agent Johnson addresses Special Agent Johnson quite dryly. "Until we die in a burning helicopter crash, which I am not looking forward to. And I am _never_ going to call you Big. I resent spending a quarter of a century being called Little Johnson, not gonna lie."

Brienne rubs at the light contusion on her forehead she'd sustained in the crash earlier, concerned that it has rattled her reason beyond use, only to then see another pair of agents getting out of a black sedan. These ones are almost identical to each other. "So who are they?"

"Agents Kettleblack and Kettleblack," Special says, squinting at them. "They are related. In fact, there are three of them, all brothers, but I couldn't tell you which these are."

"They're pretty much interchangeable," Agent Johnson adds, "and only really here as a maybe-possibly throwaway reference to something which was mentioned in chapter three."

Special nods at the younger man. "All _I_ know is they each have disturbing amounts of dark chest hair and despite their being pretty unscrupulous, they are true charisma vacuums. They literally cannot scare up one whole personality between them."

Brienne thinks she has managed to find one salient point in their unsettlingly abstract chatter. "They're unscrupulous? Then how did they get into the Academy at all?"

"Who knows? Or cares?" Johnson says blandly, as Special nods up at the towering Plaza.

"We've been listening in on the way, Officer Tarth. What's your read on the guy you've been talking to?" he asks.

Grateful to have the conversation turn away from sheer nonsense that Brienne is convinced might only be happening in her moderately addled brain and back to the more urgent matter at hand, she simply says, "I think he's one of us."

"We think you could be right," Special agrees. "Do you believe him to be telling you the truth?"

"Yes. Though I'm not sure about the thing with the Hound."

"Oh, the Hound is very real," Special informs her. "You should see the size of his file. If your man in there has really taken him out, he's done Westeros a service. There is a problem, though. If the Hound was here, his brother may well be too."

"Surely the _Mountain_ isn't real?"

"He is as real as his brother was. And he's just as bad as every tale you've ever heard about him. Probably worse."

Brienne goes to warn Kingslayer, but Agent Johnson forestalls her with a quick wave of his hand. "Look, before you leap in, Officer Tarth, we have to tell you, we're happy to use the Kingslayer as a source of information, but if we think things are spinning out of control, we will have to move in aggressively, do you understand me? We are in charge here now."

"It doesn't look like it to me. Not yet," she chides.

At her side, Special's craggy features drop into a wry grin, taking no offence. "We'll get a handle on this soon, but what we need from you is to keep in contact with this Kingslayer. Keep him calm and get as much intel from him as you can. OK?"

Brienne nods and clicks on the radio. "Kingslayer?"

"Tarth. What can you tell me?"

"The WBI have given me some information for you. They seem fairly sure that if the Hound was involved, his brother will be as well." She leaves out the fact that the agents seem worryingly out of their senses, for the moment. 

"I was just getting to that, before we were so rudely interrupted," their inside man says. "Do you think we can talk freely now, without some other dickhead crowbarring his or her way into the conversation?"

"I think we're in the clear, Kingslayer," Brienne smiles. "Go on."

"The names of associates that I've _heard_ are the Hound, the Mountain, Dunsen and Sal. The guy on your car is Dunsen. It's likely he's carrying a false ID."

"How do you know it'll be false?" she asks, as Jon climbs into her crashed vehicle to gingerly pick through the pockets of the clothes on the mangled body.

"The Hound was carrying one with the name Vreski on it. The odd name aside, I've seen enough of them in my time to know it probably cost a wheelbarrow full of paper dragons." Jon's search is swift. He climbs back out and shines the light from the lamppost on the bloodied licence and then glances up at Brienne. _'He's right',_ Jon mouths, as the Kingslayer speaks on. "There is one other hostile who might be known as Shitmouth, but that may have just been a term of endearment, coming as it did from the Mountain."

"You heard him?"

"I _saw_ him, Tarth. And I wish I hadn't. I top six feet fairly easily and he made me feel like a small boy."

The man who has killed the _Hound_ , this night, sounds nearly afraid.

_I suppose I would be, if it were me in there._

Brienne tries to help him in the only way she can. "Don't be such a baby. Not when I could do the same. You're not afraid of _me_ , are you?"

There is a moment of quiet before he comes back to her. "You're that big?"

"I'm certainly taller than everybody else out here," she tells him. "I'm probably much bigger than you."

His response to this is not what she, or anybody else, expects. "You must have legs that go on for years."

Brienne ignores the cruel chuckles that rise in a swell around her. "It's difficult to find well fitting trousers, that much is true. But I have other features which render me immediately less interesting, I assure you."

"That bastard Tarly called you ugly," he states, with sharp distaste, yet if Brienne finds a moment of warmth in his unseeing defence of her, she lets it go without delay.

"Tarly was right about that, at least. Though it may be the only thing he's ever failed to be wrong about."

The Kingslayer says nothing for a few seconds and when he does, he chooses to bypass her physical failings entirely. "What did he mean by babysitting? Please tell me you're normally the keyholder of the pens or something. I like the idea of long legs pacing their way up and down between the rows of cells."

"The Keeper of the Keep? No. I specialize in working with child witnesses."

"That's...sedate." 

"Less so than you'd think, sometimes. But yes," Brienne admits, "I've been non-frontline since I moved here, by choice."

"You don't strike me as a natural desk jockey, Tarth."

"I'm _not_. But there was an off-duty incident, back when I was in the TPD." Brienne stops, unwilling to share the details of what drove her to move across a whole continent when she knows so many people are listening. "And the work I'm doing now often has its own kinds of rewards. When the children call me ugly, they aren't being cruel, just truthful, for a start," she ruefully finishes.

It immediately becomes apparent that this dogged man, whoever he is, isn't going to let things go so easily. "So you're from Tarth? It must have been a bad incident to have you running full west until you almost tipped yourself back into the sea again."

"It was. I lost a very good friend." Brienne pushes away the image that has haunted her dreams at night for so long now, blue eyes becoming dead ones as flowing black hair tangled in the stalks of tulips, spilled from their buckets in the chaos and panic of the Flower Market. "I haven't fired a shot outside of a gun range since."

"I'm sorry." Brienne thinks he means it.

"Don't be," she softly says. "The past is done. We still carry it with us and it might change what we do some, but we don't have to let it change who we are inside."

This is met with a torrent of laughter from him, but it all feels aimed squarely at himself. "I do wish I'd met you twenty or so years ago, Officer Tarth. I could have done with your brand of pep talk back then."

She is the one who laughs at that. "When I was five? Maybe six, at a push?"

"Ouch," he groans. "Never mind, Brienne. Still, I'm sure you had a great deal of wisdom to share on the subject of Grennkies, even at that early an age."

"I would have," she grins. " _'Don't eat them'_. How can a foodstuff taste solely of honey and preservatives?"

"Mmmm, preservatives," he grumbles, sounding just like King Robert, the rotund, drunk and overly jocular lead in the long-running cartoon show 'The Stagglesons'.

Brienne is about to congratulate him on the accuracy of his impression when their current situation comes back to the fore. They have never been alone in this conversation, after all, even if it sometimes felt like it.

"I hate to break into this extraordinarily dull love-fest, my two most troublesome guests." It is Littlefinger. "But Kingslayer, I have someone here who wants to talk to you." He pauses and Brienne finds herself holding her breath. "Someone you might know."

There is no reply to this ominously furled out statement.

The Kingslayer falls absolutely silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It will be a 3-4 day wait for the next chapter. Thank you kindly for your time.


	11. Qorgyle Qola

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. RL was being RL, and I have ended up typing with fingers which may be icicles. Are fingsicles a thing? Thank you to all of my friends for their support, and extra-thang-ye's to Nurdles for having a quick look-see.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own it not.

 

**Titles Are Hard**

**Chapter Eleven - Qorgyle Qola - Brienne**

 

_It didn't even occur to me. But of course he must know someone being held in the Plaza. Why else would he be there in the first place?_

Brienne waits, her stomach feeling as if an abyss has opened up within it as Littlefinger speaks again. "Come now, Kingslayer," he says, each syllable rolling off of his tongue with real malice, "or should I say Officer Janos Slynt, of the City Watch in the KLPD?"

Still, the Kingslayer says nothing and Brienne finds it extremely unsettling. She hopes he is not foolishly running towards whichever loved one he has been visiting. It'll just see him dead. She watches a flurry of talk erupt between the WBI agents and some of her fellow officers, no doubt assigning someone the task to dig them up as much information on Officer Slynt as they can whilst Littlefinger continues, obviously relishing having the centre of the metaphorical stage.

"Why are you suddenly quiet, Slynt? Up until now you have been _so_ full of jests, haven't you? And though you have had the upper hand, I'd say we've reached an impasse. Yet it can be easily resolved. You have something I want. And now...I have someone you want to _live._ "

"I need proof of life." The man trapped so far above them seems to bite out every word, clearly, at least to Brienne, wrapping sheer panic into the small parcels of sound that punctuate the airwaves.

"Easily done," Littlefinger says, all dark smugness. "The proof you're asking for is sitting _right in front of me_."

A few seconds pass and a new voice is heard, full of self-confidence. "Hey, Jay! How are you holding up, bud?"

"Daario." The Kingslayer's voice is strangled with a fear so tightly intense, it almost comes across as relief. "What are you _doing_?"

"Come on, Jay. Listen to me, man. I know this whole shindig has gone a bit tits-up, but we can work it out with these folks and then I'll take you to Club Dracarys. It'll be great, just like old times. Beary Oysters and and Blackhair Velvets, all the way. Naharys and Slynt ride again!"

"Daario, you _cannot_ trust these people."

"How many times do I have to tell you? I negotiate multi-million dragon deals before I fall out of bed in the morning. Who better to know when a misunderstanding has happened, huh? Who better to work it out?"

_"They'll kill you- "_

"No, they _won't_ , Jay. They just want the bag you have. Nobody down here has been hurt and I think they're lying about Varys. The LPD are here and these guys have made their 'statement'. I've been having a very civilized talk about it with Littlefinger, here. They've even put some ice cubes in my Qola." This man, full of bluster, completely unaware of the seriousness of his situation and, it would seem, of how radios work can be heard taking a sip of the drink. "Do you have any diet, Littlefinger? I'm a fine figure of a man, it's true, but this doesn't happen without a bit of sacrifice on my part, you know what I'm saying?"

Brienne listens to the radio being snatched away. "I think I do, Daario," Littlefinger intones, "and I think our friend Janos does too. Am I correct?"

His intended audience of one does not reply to him, instead sounding truly desperate as he pleads with his friend. "Daario, get _away_ from these people. Go back to the others."

"Oh, I don't think there's any need for that." Littlefinger is clearly enjoying this and it chills Brienne. "Now you have a choice, Janos. Agree to bring me that bag, in person, or I shoot your Daario, here. I will count to three. There will not be a four. _One_."

Brienne feels stricken as Slynt shouts, "Daario! Tell this guy you don't know me. That you never met me before tonight! Tell him!"

"Then how did he know about your being a police officer, Janos? _Two_." Now the mastermind behind whatever has gone so wrong in there keeps the radio on for a second or two, for just long enough for everyone to hear Daario start to realise just how badly he had thought this situation out.

"Littlefinger, that isn't funny. It's a _radio_. They don't need to see you pointing your gun at-"

The man formerly known as the Kingslayer is mid-way through a furious sentence when he can finally cut in. "-ucking dare, Littlefinger! This man knows nothing. He's _not_ my friend. I beg you, don't do this!"

"I wouldn't have to, if you just brought back what is mine."

Officer Janos Slynt sounds hopeless when he replies. "I can't do that, and you know it!"

_"Three."_

"No. No! _No_!"

A gunshot rings out, tinny, loud and harsh through the small speaker in Jon's patrol car. Brienne looks around her, clueless, only to find all the other officers doing the same.

_Is Daario dead?_

"Oh, I'm sorry, Officer Slynt. It appears you've just killed your best friend from college." In the background, shrieks can be heard, Brienne assumes from the main body of hostages.

"I did not, Littlefinger. _You_ did. Tarth. _Tarth_?"

It takes Brienne a moment to react. She fumbles at the button on the radio she is holding, her voice thick with revulsion at what has come to pass as she answers his call. "Yes?"

"I couldn't fulfil that demand. Please tell me you believe me."

It nearly seems as if he is pleading with her as much as he had with Littlefinger, though there is no need, for she answers him naturally enough. "I do."

"I don't!" an angry voice cuts in. _Tarly_. "I am taking you down for this, Slynt. You're a maniac!"

Special Agent Johnson, who is now lacking the company of his partner, comes up and gestures to take the radio from Brienne's hand. "Tarly, this is an A-7 situation. I've already told you personally to keep this channel clear for those designated by me to speak on it. _You are not_." He doesn't even bother turning to look at the blisteringly angry Area Commissioner at the perimeter, whose reply could be heard without the radio, Brienne is certain.

"Fuck that, you godsdamned mindless suit. He killed his friend. We all heard it!"

Brienne grabs the radio back from Special and speaks into it without pause, now furious herself. "He did not. He begged for his friend to live. Have some fucking compassion, Tarly. The man who has been up there, dealing with this alone for hours has just heard _that_. Get a fucking grip." 

By the end of her impromptu speech, there is a smattering of applause amongst the various and numerous officers of the law gathered around Casterly Plaza, yet Brienne herself barely notices it, caught as she is in a duel of glares with her superior. It is only broken when Officer Slynt's voice comes from channel 18.

"You don't seem to me like the cursing kind, Tarth."

Brienne narrows her eyes one last time at Tarly and then, very pointedly, shows him her back. "I'm not. But that was vile. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize for him," Janos insists.

"I wasn't. I'm sorry about your friend."

There is a distinct pause before he comes back to her. "I would have felt as badly, had he done that to anyone he was holding."

"I think I know that," she assures him, watching a doe-eyed officer come up and whisper into Special's ear. Once he hears what the young woman has to say, he turns to Brienne, making a cutting motion across his throat. "Can you give me a minute?"

At the affirmative reply, Brienne leaves the radio on the roof of the car and looks at Special, who steps in very close to her, lowering his voice. "He's _not_ Janos Slynt."

"What?"

Special grabs her arms and she hunches until her right ear is next to his mouth. "Officer Janos Slynt, who attended college with one Daario Naharys, has just been pulled from his shift observing the live CCTV of Cobbler's Square, in King's Landing, for incidents of petty crime amongst the tourists gathered there for the Annual Khaleesmas Eve Hootenanny." He releases his grip and waves between them, in the general direction of the media vans gathering at the secondary perimeter. She can see journalists and cameramen already ducking under the tape, trying to get to the primary cordon on foot, even if most of their advances are rebuffed. "His family are being taken into protective custody as we speak, more to keep them from the vultures than anybody else." He looks at her with great seriousness. "I have to ask you this, Officer Tarth. Do you still think the man we're dealing with is one of us?"

_I would have felt as badly, had he done that to anyone he was holding._

"Yes. Can we keep this quiet here, too?"

Special addresses the woman who had brought them this information. "Officer Tarly?"

At Brienne's understandable gasp of shock, this other Tarly comes closer and smiles up at her shyly, yet reassuringly. "Oh, don't worry, Officer Tarth. He's my goodfather, but he hates me. He even hates my _husband._ I won't say a word. I'm happy not to, believe me."

Brienne nods at her quiet and brave act of rebellion, thinking that tomorrow's Khaleesmas dinner may be a difficult affair in the Tarly household, and Special says, "Then we'll keep it between us. Yes?"

They mutter their agreement and Brienne leans on the top of the car, picking the radio back up and staring at the almost unblemished face of the building there, attempting to work out the man hidden inside.

_Who are you? And why would a man go to his death for a lie to protect you?_

There is no point in her wondering about what obviously cannot be openly told, so she asks a question. "Tarth, here. So what should I call you now? Jay? Janos?"

"Not Janos," a dry voice replies. "I'm sure we all know what that ended up being twisted into at school."

Brienne, a seasoned target for those who would use any aspect of a person to inflict hurt, can appreciate that, even if it is only for a colleague who has just been pulled unceremoniously from his desk, the span of a continent away. "How about I stick with Kingslayer for a bit, then? As you said, it has some some swagger."

"For a name made up on the spot."

"It's not so bad," she lightly tells him, but then feels the need to reaffirm his guiltlessness about Daario, whether they were truly friends or not. "I know you did not want that to happen, Kingslayer."

"Of course not. How could I?" he says, and she can feel the truth in it. But his mood, which she is trying both gauge and shepherd, swiftly changes as actions out here, that she knows nothing of either, start to kick in. "What in the hells is going on?"

The huge searchlights which have been quietly moved into place around Casterly Plaza begin to flicker into life, throwing up powerful beams onto it.

"Drogon, Rhaegal and fucking Viserion!" the Kingslayer curses. "Are you coming _in_?"

"It looks like it, Kingslayer," Brienne says uncertainly, looking at Special, who mouths the word 'yes', with some conviction.

"Well, _don't_. These people are armed, and I have no idea what top-end weaponry they have!"

"It's out of my hands," Brienne explains, not liking it one bit herself. "The WBI said they would hold off for as long as the situation remained stable. I think your friend being murdered moves it out of that category. Can you go to ground?"

"Oddly enough, _no_."

"I didn't mean it literally, Kingslayer," she chides, spinning about as she hears the crashing of wood. The largest trailer she has ever seen, perhaps two stories tall, has been moved into place between the cordons and the door at the end of it has landed onto ashpalt, the bang of it echoing endlessly between the tall buildings in this part of town. "Can you find a place of safety?" she asks with urgency.

His voice calls her attention back to the Plaza. "Maybe, but this is a mistake. And is that a _mammoth_?" he finishes, with incredulity.

Brienne glances behind her again, and can hardly believe her eyes at the beast emerging from the darkness. "Yes?" she says, unsure at what she is seeing.

"What the fuck is going _on_ out there?"

"I don't know. I honestly thought I was concussed until now," she tells the Kingslayer, knowing that the truth seems to be what he needs to hear, for all that his sharing of his has been scant, for reasons she can't quite tell. "Look, I'll see if I can find out. You just hole up and stay safe in there, OK?"

"No deal. I can hear them coming for me now." She listens to him start to run, though his footsteps come through as strangely muffled, dull beats on the floor. "I'll contact you. If I can."

"Noted. Stay safe, Kingslayer. Stay _alive_."

"I'll try." It sounds as if he takes a moment of rest, perhaps to work out his way to relative safety. "Goodbye, Officer Tarth," the Kingslayer says, and he does so with such gravity that she knows he thinks he will not make it. Brienne wants to reassure him, but he needs radio silence and she isn't sure, looking at the madness coalescing about her, that he isn't completely right.

She watches a mammoth, armoured in vast, interlocking sheets of dark kevanlar, lumber it's way between the cars being hurriedly shifted out of it's path.

It is brought to a halt a few feet away, by an unsteady and clearly untrained yank of the reins attached to the animal's tusks from the equally heavily armoured man atop it. The mammoth settles into stillness quickly, when a few of its handlers, who have been running alongside it, run forth with offerings of nuts and fruits.

Brienne, for her part, can only shout out what feels like a relevant question, at this point. "Johnson, what are you doing?"

The man mounted upon the beast looks down and speaks as matter-of-factly as he has since his arrival. "I thought I might as well choose one fiery death over another, and this is a more fun way of going about it."

"On a _mammoth_?"

Johnson shrugs. "Well, the old lady in charge didn't think sending half a dozen unidentified police officers in, only to die in a burning armoured vehicle, was very cracky. She's decided she simply doesn't care if this feels tonally jumpy. And at least this way I get to be fabulous on a mammoth, which I was not expecting. It makes a change, y'know?"

"Not really," Brienne tells him, "but good luck."

"Thanks, Officer Tarth," Johnson says, only to then switch his attention to his partner, looking at him with some regret. "Sorry about the whole helicopter thing, but riding a war mammoth was always on my bucket list, Special, and where we come from, there weren't many mammoths."

Special draws himself up to his full height, as if in salutation, and Brienne finds herself doing the same, along with many of those stationed around her. "Have at it, Agent Johnson," he says. "It's been an honour."

"For me too, Special Agent Johnson." Johnson tugs on those reins again and the mammoth begins to trudge forwards, veering off to take the road leading up to Casterly Plaza. "Come on, Gertie!" he shouts, with more enthusiasm than Brienne has seen from him at all before, on this night. "It's our moment to shine! Possibly literally!"

Special leans wearily on his elbows, next to Brienne, on the roof of the patrol car. She looks at him. "You know this doesn't make any sense, Special."

"Maybe not," he says, with some sadness, "but it really is less grim than the whole exploding armoured vehicle with the burning of nameless and blameless people to death deal."

"I could understand that, if I had known it was an option," Brienne says. Yet there is even more that is strange going on, some of which is way beyond the mere service of a mammoth in this situation. After all, every police department has a mammoth division for sound purposes. They are most efficient when deployed for crowd control, though they are rarely employed in scenarios such as this. "But why is Johnson using a canoe strapped to Gertie as a saddle?" she asks.

Special glances at her briefly, only to answer as his gaze becomes fixed on Gertie once more, as well as the man she is bearing. "He has his reasons. But they're need to know, and _you_ don't need to know."

Brienne looks at the building Johnson is headed towards and thinks of the warnings about which the Kingslayer had been so fervent. "This is going to end badly, Special Agent Johnson." She knows it. She feels it.

Special becomes wistful as his partner calls for Gertie to charge the main doors of Casterly Plaza, and her thunderous footsteps begin to vibrate beneath their feet, even this far back. "Probably," he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter should be up in 3-4 days, if this time the heating engineer can actually fix the heating. *Prays for a heating dude of awesome skillsness* Thank you kindly for your time.


	12. Lannisters Lie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to Nurdles. I am thinking of you. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I own it not.

 

**Titles Are Hard**

**Chapter Twelve - Lannisters Lie - Cersei**

_Well, that worked out just as well as I'd expected._

Daario Naharys' grand plan, that he should name Jaime as some KLPD friend of his own as a negotiating tactic with these gun-toting pieces of trash, was a vast over-estimation of his own skills which has only led to his death and chaos amongst those being held here. His assumptions that the sound of sirens meant that they were all immediately saved and that her brother's presence was no longer required were beyond belief, his thought that his personal brand of smarmy talk could resolve everything even more so. Cersei has never lived in a house without a panic room. She knows damned well that you aren't home and dry until someone with a real badge is right there, telling you things are safe. Preferably more than one.

_At least I won't have to be as grateful as Daario implied, for his keeping my family out of it._

Cersei supresses a shudder at the all too fresh memory of his smug grin as he departed, only to end up massaging the bridge of her nose as Lollys, and a fair few others, start wailing again, when Daario's body is dragged out unceremoniously by the feet to take its place in the disabled toilet, next to the dead man still bearing a Khaleesmas hat. She winces at the noise.

_Good fucking grief, this isn't helping._

Cersei turns, uncertain whether she is going to comfort the diary-keeper next to her or tell her to shut the hells up, only to find that in the turmoil, Missandei has made her way over to them. The younger woman is crouched low and has gathered Lollys in her arms, rocking her back and forth. Cersei smothers a groan at the woman's insatiable need to be seen as kind and instead smiles thinly at her, whilst Missandei straightens and glances at her in concern.

"Ms Lannister. _Cersei._ Lollys is uncomfortable." She looks warily at the nearby gunman, before appearing to become determined. "I should try to speak to them about it."

 _And solidify your reputation as the_ caring _member of the board?_

That tiresome thought alone drives Cersei up to her feet. "Don't bother. They know who I am. Keep our people safe. If you can." Though she almost spits out that last down at Missandei, the Head of International Projects Development simply looks up at her with apparent admiration. Cersei shows the woman her back, tired of her ceaselessly unslipping, studied mask of tedious sharing and responsibility.

 _Nobody is brilliant enough to rise so high without crushing those they overtake. Nobody. And certainly_ not _you._

She slowly walks towards the nearest idiot with a weapon, with a moment of doubt as she thinks of her children, which is soon driven away by a spectacularly nasal bout of massed bawling that kicks off in a huddled group of ill-dressed secretaries. It lends speed to her steps.

_Anything to get me away from this unceasing racket._

She takes no real note of the man she speaks to, attaching no significance to anything other than his bearing a large gun as she squares her shoulders in front of him. "I need to speak to your 'glorious' leader."

If she has shown little interest in him, their guard does quite the opposite, his sandy hair flopping over his face when he leans forward and takes his time inspecting various parts of her anatomy. "And I need you to sit your pretty arse back down."

There is cruelty in his tone, but not enough to unnerve _her_. "Well, unless you want to see all of these arses start shitting into the water feature fairly soon, you will take me to 'Littlefinger'. _Now_."

He laughs, a slow, slithering sound which is uninterrupted by his swinging the barrel of his gun about and firmly into her side, making Cersei stumble forward a few paces. She pulls herself bolt upright, glaring over her shoulder at him. "I am quite capable of walking."

He grasps her shoulder, digging the muzzle of his weapon hard in between her shoulder blades. "And I'm quite fucking capable of putting a bullet in your back. Keep moving."

The rest of the short journey to her office is an uncomfortable one, the guard unwilling to loosen his grip or cease the unneeded reminder of cold metal pressing into her spine. Still, Cersei refuses to show any fear. That would be beneath her.

She is firmly shoved into place against a glass wall in the hallway, while he steps in to address Littlefinger. "This one thinks she's the Queen of the World. And she's demanding to speak to you."

Cersei is fully aware that she is being is observed when she moves to stand in the doorway herself, but she doesn't care as she lifts her hands to the nameplate there, drawing strength from what she knows, and from that which she can use to fight what she doesn't.

_I am a Lannister. And Lannisters lie._

"That's fine, Raff," the small man sitting behind _her_ desk says. "Ms. Lannister. Do come in."

Cersei takes that as permission to barge past the underling, making sure she elbows him the ribs as sharply as she can as she does so. She virtually marches over to the half closed blinds, meeting Littlefinger's raised eyebrow with a sharply uttered, "This is _my_ office. I'll go where I please."

She gets her first glimpse of the assembled horde that is Lannisport's 'finest' outside as she waits, poised for incoming violence at her act of presumption. Yet it doesn't happen, the leader of those currently holding Casterly Plaza standing with what can only be called a disappointing and overly malign chuckle, taking up a position by the window himself, more than an arm's length away.

They both gaze down at a heavily armoured mammoth, advancing with ever increasing momentum across the large sea of asphalt in front of the building, in the direction of the main entrance.

Littlefinger lifts his radio, with no sense of alarm. "Defence plan C."

The faint sound of automatic gunfire shattering glass, far lower in the building, can just about be heard here. "Are you going to kill the mammoth?" Cersei asks. Not that she gives a single fuck for the LPD or their trained pets, given her past dealings with them, but it seems to be a relevant question.

"No," Littlefinger drones, with what Cersei believes is intended to be menace.

_Oh, please. If you want menace, you should have met my father._

She just smiles at him inquiringly, which seems to nudge him into elaborating. "That would play very badly to the assembled media. However, if the poor animal can be encouraged to turn back? Maybe indulge in a lone stampede, of sorts? That would be a truly unfortunate accident."

Cersei peers back through the blinds, unwilling to admit that this unimportant individual may have come into this with more forethought than she'd understood. Instead, she watches an RPG explode, just feet away from the huge animal. The effect is instant, the beast rearing and roaring, nearly throwing it's rider, it's enormous bulk twisting away from the flames. But then another detonates, near to where massively thick forelegs land, and the mammoth simply turns tail and flees uncontrollably, straight for the high, grassy verges surrounding the forecourt of the Plaza.

They watch it almost slide out of view, only to see it rear up again as it collides with the metal of a police vehicle in the path of its escape. It nearly climbs atop it in a state of panic, its feet slamming down and it's trunk lifted high as it signals its distress.

A voice filled with hilarity cracks out of the radio. "Oh my gods, the police patrol car is a _pancake_!"

Littlefinger speaks calmly in return. "Sal, I have company."

 _"You_ asked me to tell you when I hit the last stage, Littlefinger," is the accusation batted back, though the man making it is still laughing. "And I have."

"What do you think?" Littlefinger says, making the question sound less urgent than it is, as Cersei reads it.

"Hey, it's not like you're asking me to talk a woman out of her smallclothes, here."

Littlefinger scowls at the gadget in his hand. "That is hardly the area of your expertise for which I am paying you a _lot_ of good coin, Sal."

There is yet another rumble of laughter, though this one seems less content. "Then I _think_ it'll take a miracle."

"I'm working on one. Littlefinger out." His string-pulling done, he re-takes _her_ seat, which is maddening. "So, Ms Lannister. Why have you come to me, so soon after your colleague's tragic demise?"

With one last look outside, where the mammoth is just about being brought under control by a large number of handlers, Cersei moves to a place in front of her desk and stares at Littlefinger as imperiously as she can. "It's about to begin getting very messy out there, unless you start allowing people to use the facilities. And we have a heavily pregnant woman, who is uncomfortable, leaning against stone lions. It would be best for us all if she were moved to an office, where she can rest. After all, I don't suppose you brought along a midwife, did you? I had thought that was why Daario came to see you, but then I don't quite understand why that would require you _shooting him in the head_."

"You seem to have quite the air of command, for one with such a muddy reputation. What, other than your _name_ ," Littlefinger sneers, stroking at his precisely styled goatee, "recommends you to come in here with demands?"

"The fact that you seem to be murdering your way through board members at an alarming rate," Cersei accuses him, choosing to ignore the presence of Missandei as she goes on. "I'm afraid you're pretty much left with me."

Littlefinger's radio bursts back into life, but it is not Sal who speaks. "We've found him, but he's holed up."

"What condition is he in?" Littlefinger asks, pinning his gaze to Cersei like a blade.

_Jaime._

Cersei forces herself not to react in any way at all, whilst her brother's condition is illuminated, in a manner of speaking. "The fuckwit's not even wearing any shoes!"

Cold eyes keep their close watch on her, even as Littlefinger makes a dry suggestion. "Well, is there any glass nearby?" At a grunt that may well be positive, he offers, with the slightest hint of exasperation, "Then _shoot_ it, before you move in."

There is a brief reply, though it cannot be heard as anything other than maniacal laughter, overlain so heavily as it is by the sound of weapons firing and shattering glass. The broadcast is brief, no more than a few seconds, and Cersei uses them to push away any concern she has for her brother. She is still being minutely observed.

_Lannisters lie._

Her thoughts about Jaime suitably concealed, Cersei allows herself the luxury of a stinging smile. "It really is so hard to find quality goons, these days. Whatever happened to independent thought?"

"Quite," Littlefinger agrees, only to lean forward, resting his elbows on some extremely expensive heartwood, his returning smile no less sharp. "I'm curious, Ms Lannister. It seems that one Janos Slynt, a police officer with the KLPD, is running loose about the building, without his shoes. If you would care to take a moment, I'd like you to look in the corner of your extremely plush executive bathroom. Tell me, what do you see there?"

Cersei steps away as asked and takes in the sight of Jaime's tatty trainers, and even his holed, pathetic excuse for socks, hastily discarded exactly where Littlefinger said they would be. "A rancid pair of training shoes," she says, with genuine distaste, whilst she silently curses her brother for being so bloody careless.

"Interesting, do you not think?"

There is something in Littlefinger's tone, a mild yet insidious sense of insinuation, which chafes at Cersei's temper. "I do _not_ ," she grates, turning back towards him, her anger seeing her grasp at the nearest chair back. "Look, even before you decided you redecorate my office, I was well aware that I would have to have every inch of it swabbed with Lys-Oil before I could use it again." She pauses, only now feeling the dampness under her fingers. Cersei lifts her hands and stares at them in revulsion, slick as they are with what must be Daario's blood. Without Littlefinger's leave, she goes into her bathroom to wash them, calling out, "Now I might have to have it done _twice_. You do know what happens at Christmas parties, yes? Or have you never been invited to one?"

Having followed her, Littlefinger leans nonchalantly against the door-jamb, his only response to her barb a slow, insolent gesture of disinterest. "Please. _Do_ enlighten me."

Cersei scrubs at her skin under the running water until it is clean, only answering when she launches the hand towel she dries herself with disdainfully in the direction of Jaime's poor and stinking excuse for footwear. "People have been rutting like animals in each of these offices, all evening long. I hate to disappoint you, Littlefinger," she tells him, meaning nothing of the sort, "but you're probably just seeing the abandoned detritus of a female executive deciding she would like a bit of rough, and collaring a janitor or two." She makes her way back out into the main office, brushing past Littlefinger as if he isn't there. "Good for her, I say. If only I had done the same for myself."

She glances over at the small sofa and the flat, blue, court shoes left there hours earlier, and thanks the gods for Lollys' constantly swollen feet.

_Lannisters lie._

"See?" she says, pointing at them. "Those could well be her shoes. They're far too cheap for me."

"So they are," Littlefinger says, taking in the sharp metal heels on which Cersei is finely balanced as he takes her chair once more. "However, I do have one other question, before I look to your requests." He lifts the last of the framed pictures from the bookcase behind him and places it on the desk before him, facing her. "This photograph was face down, when I arrived."

"It's always face down."

Perhaps she has replied too swiftly, because Littlefinger leans back, his face lit with what might be a sense of victory. "That's _not_ what your dear, departed Daario told me."

Now Cersei curses herself, but for no more than a second or two.

_Lannisters lie._

"When you were pointing a gun at him?" she asks, acidly. "Perhaps I should be more exact. It's always face down at _this_ time of year."

She simply can't tell if her hasty revision is believed, for Littlefinger merely smiles with entirely false sympathy. "But Khaleesmas is a time for family, surely? Or so I have always been told."

"Maybe for yours, but not for mine. My father is dead, and I loathe my brothers."

Littlefinger leans in again, all eagerness. _"Both_ of them?"

"Tyrion killed my mother," Cersei tells him, easily enough. "And Jaime abandoned me in my hour of need."

"Ah, yes," Littlefinger nods, "that scandal from a couple of years ago. Yet I had thought the charges dropped? Those articles retracted?"

Cersei feels laughter start to bubble up inside of her. Sometimes, there is just no need to lie. "There is a grain of truth in almost all things printed, even in the gutter press. In this case, Jaime leaving me to hang was it. I don't forgive easily. Some might say I don't forgive at all. I promise you, there is barely enough hatred in the world to fill my cup of it, when it comes to him."

_Or more precisely to you, you piece of shit._

"We've got the fucking bag!"

If Cersei is certain she is safe enough in this moment, the voice on the radio clearly makes Littlefinger nothing short of exceptionally happy. "Excellent. I'll meet you in around fifteen or twenty minutes. Slynt?"

"Shitting well _gone_." The beast of a man who had so terrified everyone being held in the lobby earlier can be heard bellowing out his frustration in the background. Littlefinger stares at Cersei intensely for a short time, but she has no intention of letting him know that she is glad Jaime is still thwarting any attempt to find him. If she could hide the fact that she was fucking her brother for the better part of two decades, she is hardly going to let this slip.

When he doesn't find what he is seeking in her, Littlefinger gets back to his 'colleagues'. "No matter, Shitmouth. We have what we need." There is a reply, though the words are submerged under incoherent cursing and rage. _"Listen_ to me, Gregor," the short man sat in front of Cersei says, now with with some urgency, even if he doesn't stop looking at her, _"Leave him, for now._ Once we have done what we must, then you can find him and tear him apart."

Those final words are said with viciousness, but Cersei is made of stone. For upwards of minute nothing is said or done, but she has all the time in the world, whereas she knows the man trying to rattle her has somewhere else to be.

In the end, Littlefinger inclines his head politely, however little he means it. "Your requests are reasonable, Ms Lannister. We shall move out a sofa for the pregnant woman and escort you to the facilities in small groups. Is that acceptable?"

Cersei nods back, with equally spurious civility. "It is."

"Good. Raff!" he calls to the man waiting just outside of the office. "Take her back. And try to rein in your baser urges." He spares Cersei one last, chilling smile, which she chooses not to return. "She may yet be of some value to us."

"Pity," the guard says, yanking at Cersei's hair, winding it around his fist and dragging her from the room. In only a few undignified, brutal moments that somehow seem far too long, she is pulling herself free from his tight grip and making her way, as steadily as she can, back over to Lollys and Missandei.

"They will make her more comfortable," she tells them, shaking with pure anger as she lowers herself to the floor by their sides. Cersei can say nothing more, lost to glaring at Raff and wishing that she could be the death of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be up in 3-4 days. Thank you kindly. :) Further note, dated 27/01/15 - I am sorry for the delay in posting. Sometimes, RL just throws up unexpectedly difficult circumstances. However, I shall still post the next chapter within a few further days. Thank you for your patience. :)


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